Rain Check
by Portwenn Hydra
Summary: Stormy weather is the forecast for Portwenn, Cornwall. As the winds blow and rain falls, how will Martin and Louisa fare at keeping house in this post Season 5 story?
1. Chapter 1

**Rain Check**

by Portwenn Hydra

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

I was walking, or trying to walk, but something was holding me back. I turned and saw nothing there, but I just could not take a full step. My shoes were properly tied, or so I thought, yet when I stared down at them they were encased in heavy, thick and cloying muck. Muck that was so viscous and heavy I could barely move. And there was something else; some unseen thing that was tugging at me, trying to tip me backwards, but when I brushed a hand down back, shoulders, and arms I felt nothing restraining me. It felt so familiar and yet so strange at the same time, like I should recall this event, but it all seemed like I had forgotten something - something _very_ _important_.

No matter how much I struggled the quagmire kept sucking me back and down as I tried to walk from the pool of sludge. To complicate matters it was also raining, pouring down in an excellent imitation of a hurricane, soaking my best suit. There was so much water coming down I could not get a full breath, and I felt I was suffocating, or nearly so.

In my squirming I caught a glimpse of Louisa standing to my left, well out of the mud, and I held out a hand to her and called for her help. But she stood there stock still with a regretful look on her face. "Louisa!" I shouted and right then an alarm radio clicked on and a loud voice started blaring in my ear.

"An Amber Weather Alert has been issued for all of Cornwall and West Devon by the Met Service," the thunderous tones flew from the bedside radio.

With a jolt I turned my head from where my face had been pressed into the pillow and getting some oxygen into me at last groggily listened to the rest of the forecast.

"The cold front forecast for Monday evening has arrived a full ten hours early, bringing with it falling temperatures, up to 50 millimeters of rain or more, as well as high winds. Those living near low lying areas should be aware that flash flooding may ensue, especially along road verges and drains. Strong on-shore winds and a greater than expected high tide will present challenging conditions along the coast for the next 48 hours. Small craft should lie hove to, as winds may gust as high as sixty to seventy kilometers per hour. Beach combers should stay home as large waves may present dangers. Moving on to today's other news…"

I switched the thing off, rolled over and groaned.

"Sounds like a real wet day coming," said Louisa, who put an arm about me.

"Yes," I said into her ear as she scooted closer, and I enjoyed her warmth, as the bedroom felt cool this February morning. I nuzzled Louisa's neck while she pressed herself against me, her long hair falling over my face. I could hear wind keening past the cottage and whistling through the leaky windows. "Sounds like the weather's here already," I grunted.

Louisa groaned. "There's always weather Martin. You just have to be prepared." She yawned and stretched then resettled herself against me. "So much for the nature walk I'd planned for the Year Threes. Martin," she sighed into my ear, "I should check on James."

"In a minute," I said softly.

"Okay."

She leaned her soft body more fully into me and rested her bare feet on my mine while I jumped and yelped. "Louisa! Those are cold!"

She chuckled. "Sorry. But didn't you tell me that women's circulatory systems shunt peripheral blood from the hands and feet to the body core to maintain temperature?"

"The doctor hoist by his own petard," I muttered as her ice cold feet sucked warmth from mine like a sponge.

"That's engineer."

"What?"

"_Engineer_ hoist by his own petard," Louisa laughed. "Hamlet."

"I know that."

She snuggled closer and I breathed deep, the smell that was Louisa penetrating my nose, a smell of shampoo, deodorant, the perfume she uses, and the smell of warm skin. I closed my eyes and thought back to Christmas a few weeks back. Louisa had pulled out all the stops in her preparations for the event. I was not used to the holiday and she had to poke and prod me every step of the way. I had balked at buying a tree, lights, decorations, presents; the lot.

But I lost every discussion, every dust up, and every semi-civil debate about the thing and Louisa had forced her way at every turn. She kept reminding me it was James Henry's _first_ Christmas, as well as _ours_, and every one of my rejoinders that he would remember none of it had failed - utterly and miserably.

"We'll remember it, Martin!" she'd squawk at times, and so, whinging and moaning, I had to let her get on with the holiday prep.

In spite of myself and any dire expectations I had enjoyed it. Not the caroling by the Portwenn urchins, or the village light-up, when the street decorations were lit, or the over indulgence of food and drink. No; it was the simple pleasure of sitting in our cramped lounge next to Aunt Ruth as I drank tap water and Ruth red wine after our dinner while Louisa sprawled on the floor beneath a decorated tree with our son parked in her lap while opening and handing out gifts on Christmas Day.

That was when I felt real pleasure to see Louisa so happy, oh so happy, and when her brilliant smile and flashing eyes faced me, I knew that I wanted this to last.

That was the night I asked her once more. James had been asleep for hours, and Ruth had left in her Mercedes somewhat tipsily, protesting that she was fine to get back to the farm on her own.

I had finally summoned courage as we went to bed. "Louisa, I don't want to… ahem… force the issue… but I want to ask…"

"Ask what?" She was brushing her hair at the mirror.

"Uhm… well… I was wondering… that is… if you wanted to…"

She put down her brush, flicked off the lamp and crawled into bed next to me. "Merry Christmas, Martin." She kissed me deeply, which I returned, as she slid her hand inside my shirt. "Of course I do."

Rapidly she was pulling me close to her and my real question went unasked as well as any lucid thought for a while.

Later as we lay sated from our labors, she spoke. "Is that what you wanted?" I heard her teasing tone in the darkness.

"Uhm… no. I mean… it was fine. But don't you think we should formalize our…" her hand moved an inch and it made me gasp. "Ah," I grasped her hand to stop its wanderings. "Louisa, I don't want James to be _that boy_ as he grows up. You have some already in your school; no proper family. You know how mean children can be to those who are different."

She rolled to face me and could just make out her eyes in the blackness. "Not this again," she grumbled and turned away.

"Louisa, I just think that we should…"

"Martin, don't," came from her lips with a warning tone.

I had sighed. "We should get married."

"Should?" Ice framed those words.

"Louisa, we are a couple, we have a stable relationship, and we have a son."

"Martin, everyone knows James Henry is our son! Half the bloody village heard me giving birth in that dreadful pub while you were blubbering away over your mobile! We don't _need_ to get married."

"So you don't want to? Marry?"

"And _you_ do," she muttered, turning away, and that ended our two AM Christmas conversation.

Louisa sat up, rubbing her arms that February morning. "It's cold in here Martin. Is the heating plant working?"

I groaned for the second time of the day. "I'll have to get it looked at."

She pecked me on the cheek, threw back the covers as she stretched and I had to admire the sight of her dark hair, slender body, and the rest of her that made me feel...

"God! This slate is like ice," she yelled as her feet hit the floor. Hopping from foot to foot she went to the door. "Martin I have to shower, can you see to James?" Seeing my nod, she disappeared round the corner.

I rose, but I put on slippers and my dressing robe. "It _is_ cold in here."

Her muffled voice came from the loo. "Told you!"

I went down the short hall to the spare room and saw James sitting up in his cot peering at me through the enclosure. He broke out in a toothless grin when he saw me, then went back to sucking on a toy.

"Good morning, James Henry. How are you?"

He gurgled and giggled as I gave him a fresh nappy. "Your mum is cleaning up. Breakfast?" He pressed his head against mine as I lifted him to my shoulder. The feel of a young baby on a cold morning was not something I had any experience of until this winter, and I found it to be nice. His chubby arms grabbed at shirt and neck as he gummed on my ear. "Breakfast then."

The kitchen was barely warmer than upstairs as I got the kettle on, boiled up eggs, and heated the rice cereal mixture for James. He sat in his chair giving me a grave look while he chewed on his toy, whinging softly.

"Gum bothering you?" I washed my hands once more and inserting a little finger between his lips felt the hard ridge of his lower gum where a milk tooth was trying to emerge. "You're growing up, son." His development was unremarkable for a seven month old. He was of average weight and length, all developmental milestones were being met, yet as he stared at me with Louisa's eyes I felt like he was in there looking out with an intelligent spark. His tiny hand touched mine and I felt… well, fatherly.

He grunted soft noises and gave me a toothless smile. "Your mum will be down in a moment." I started to spoon gruel into his mouth while he made smacking noises as he flung his head about. As I chased cereal down his cheek with a tiny spoon, he giggled.

"If you play, you won't eat. That what you want?" I asked softly and miraculously he stopped bobbing his head, sat still and allowed me to feed him.

We'd just gotten to the bottle when Louisa came down, dressed but with hair wrapped in a towel. "I'll take him."

Our boiled eggs were cooling and tea was well steeped for her. I started my espresso machine as I still preferred coffee. She cuddled James and gave him his bottle, as I sighed.

"Something wrong Martin?"

I peered through the wavy glass over the sink. "Lovely Portwenn day."

"Not about the rain is it?" Louisa said softly, as she stroked James cheek, while he drank.

I ignored her comment. "Toast will be ready in a moment."

"Thanks, Martin."

I sighed as I looked at the pair; mother and child. "You're beautiful - both of you."

Louisa gave me one of her wide-eyed smiles. "Thanks."

I bent over and kissed her head. "Why won't you marry me?" Those words were spoken into her hair and I felt her flinch.

She looked away, her lip taking punishment from her teeth. "I do love you…" she whispered.

A strained silence came between us and the only contented creature in the household was James as he filled his tummy. Was she being sarky; her way of gently telling me that she still did not trust me? Sarcasm was no stranger to Louisa Glasson nor to me. I had been exposed to every sort and knew it well; far, far too well.

Louisa looked up at me, touched my hand but then gave me a tense look. "Oh Martin. Perhaps I'll take a rain check on that?"

I stood stock still as her words hit me. She didn't want to - _still_ did not want to. I nibbled at my breakfast in silence while she held James. Two years ago I would never have imagined that this scene of domesticity was in my future, and now that it was here, I wished it was _even_ _more_ domestic.

I finished my egg and toast watching Louisa feed James, then she handed me the baby and I winded him while she ate. Then she followed me upstairs where she put James on a blanket on the floor where he began to scoot about and play with a book. Louisa bent to drying her hair and finishing her makeup as I got out my clothing for the day.

This was our morning routine. She showered while I prepared breakfast and got James started, then we swapped jobs as I showered. The school starting earlier than surgery necessitated our dull agenda. About the time that she left for school, I'd tidy up the kitchen, and then the child minder would arrive. Usually she took him out for a stroll but with the nasty weather, she'd likely just stay in the lounge or play with him upstairs. Morwenna Newcross would then barge in, about half eight, just seconds early, and then my doctor's day would start.

We were still jammed into my Portwenn surgery cottage like a tin of sardines. I was never happy that James might be upstairs or just in the next room, while my waiting room was filled with hacking and sneezing patients. In spite of my efforts, the denizens of Portwenn seemed to think that a handkerchief, or tissue, was an unnecessary luxury. So Lord only knew what pathogens were brought into our house every day.

So at the end of each surgery I'd give waiting and consulting rooms I good wipe down with germicidal agents, then carefully sweep and wash the floor, as wiping feet was another imported notion the villagers were leery of.

It was all a less than satisfactory arrangement. Louisa still had her house across the way, but it was too small, smaller even, so she'd let it out. I wanted to be near my surgery, yet wanted it somewhat more separated from our home, for James' sake, if nothing else. Part of the lynch pin of our domestic mess was Louisa's non-answer about marrying me, for every time we tried to discuss moving house, it fizzled out. So as our days slogged along, we domestically diddled about in our cramped quarters like debris caught in a large whirlpool; orbiting the center and never quite getting to the point.

Her comment about a rain check made me flare up. Some persons might interpret her answer as meaning as she would accept _later_, but I have used the very same phrase to tell the inquisitor that I _may_ or _may not_ give an answer later, if at all!

In the bathroom after showering and with barely bottled-up fury I let the electric razor rip the whiskers from my face. Didn't she want to marry me? That question ate at me far worse than any other.

A rain check? Humph. Does she think of us as little as that?

Our scene at the Castle had been played out with tenderness and real devotion, but as the weeks went on Louisa developed at times a reserved attitude which was hard to penetrate. Oh there were moments, even whole days she seemed happy, but… all in all… something was missing. What should I do about it? Was this what Fate held for us? That we would not be happy together?

A patter of rain beat against the roof as I finished my ablutions and the outside conditions likely matched my inner mood - icy and horrid.


	2. Chapter 2

**Rain Check**

**by Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 2**

Morning surgery crawled along at a glacial pace. It really shouldn't have, considering how busy I was with the usual coughs and aches that brought too many of the village's dimwitted to my door. I found the patients more irritating than usual, and after dispensing the proper diagnosis and treatment, I quickly ushered them out before they could find some other ailment to complain about.

Anyhow, most had been happy to cut their visit short as it was cold in the cottage, and getting colder by the minute. The ancient boiler refused to work, even after I had spent a good half hour prodding the starter and burner. I had called three different heating contractor's before one had agreed to come out later that morning. It was now nearing noon, and I had my doubts whether the repair man would show up as promised.

The lack of heat certainly didn't have a salubrious effect on my already frayed temper. I was still chafing at Louisa's dogged refusal to discuss our future as a couple and family. After the incident at the Castle, I had assumed the natural course of things would be for us to marry as soon as possible. But she had turned me down again and again for reasons that made little sense to me. She kept repeating we both had to think things through carefully before making another attempt at walking down the aisle. How could she doubt my intentions after I made a fool of myself declaring my love for her in front of my aunt and the delusional Sally Tishell?

My receptionist sent in the last patient of the morning, an overly gregarious fisherman who had sliced his hand with a knife. After telling him to be quiet, I repaired the laceration with a few well-placed sutures. I still felt queasy at the sight of blood, but I was able to get the job done without experiencing a full blown panic attack. My thoughts often wandered to what would have been if I had gone to Imperial as planned; I would have either sailed smoothly through the first few days in theater or crashed and burned in a way that didn't bear thinking about.

I sent him on his way and collected the last of the patient records from my desk. A sharp gust of wind shook the eaves of the surgery and I glanced out the window at the rain soaked garden behind the cottage. Maybe there something to the dire weather report that had come over the radio earlier that morning, I thought.

The reception was empty of patients except for my young, but passably efficient, receptionist. She was gazing with great intent at the computer monitor sitting on her desk, and didn't look up when I dropped the stack of patient records I was holding inches from the keyboard.

"Morwenna!" I finally snapped.

"Hold on, Doc. Almost done," she answered, her eyes still glued to the screen.

"File these and get me Mr. Bainbridge's pathology results," I said, fast losing the little patience I had left.

"This is going to be a good one," she said, blithely ignoring my requests. Why was it that every receptionist I've had since coming to this backwater couldn't follow simple directions?

I must have put on my best scowl because she finally said, "Alright, don't get yourself all worked up. I'll get to the filing in a minute. And it's Mr. Brown not Bainbridge you're looking for." She craned her neck in order to look out the window. "It's this storm. The Met's predicting record winds, rain, and flooding. Granddad said the last time this happened the fishing fleet ended up in the middle of the Platt."

A gust of wind rattled the windows as if to give credence to my receptionists' words. "I don't pay you to give me the hourly weather report. Now file these and get that patient report…"

The phone rang and she quickly grabbed the receiver before I could finish my sentence. She listened for a moment, then covered the mouth piece and said "It's Chris Parsons. He says it's urgent."

"What now," I groaned. Chris was an old friend from medical school and the head of the PCT. He only called to dutifully report patient complaints at my lack of bedside manner or offer unsolicited advice on how to conduct my personal affairs.

"Put him through," I said to Morwenna, firmly closing the consulting room door behind me.

To my surprise, he got right to the point. "Mart, I assume you've heard about the storm that's heading down the coast."

"I'd have to be senseless not to know about it," I answered shortly. My morning patients had nattered on about the upcoming storm until I had asked them to either state their medical complaint or get out.

"Anyhow, it's been upgraded to a red warning. There's already flooding in some places including the main road into Portwenn. The emergency management team tried to send a group of first responders your way but they couldn't get through."

He now had my full attention; this sounded more serious than I had initially thought.

"All villagers living in low lying areas will be asked to leave their homes and offered shelter at the village hall," continued Chris. "Your police constable is charged with organizing the necessary supplies and volunteers."

"Good luck with that," I muttered. PC Penhale had time and again proved inept at handling emergency situations and was liable to make a mess of organizing the rest centre.

Chris didn't hear or chose to ignore my comment. "As the village medic, I'm afraid you'll have to set up at the hall and provide the medical coverage singlehandedly. I can't get a backup physician your way because of the bad road and flying conditions."

I remained silent as the implication of what he had just said slowly sunk in.

"You with me, Mart?" asked Chris.

"Yes," I said wearily, rubbing my temples, feeling a headache settling behind my eyes like an unwelcome visitor.

Chris went on about logistics and supplies, but I wasn't listening. If the weather reports were to be believed, the gale force winds could cause serious damage to the surgery, perched as it was high on a cliff. Under no circumstances would I leave Louisa and James Henry to weather the storm here, alone, and without heat. But taking them with me to the village hall was even less appealing. The place would be crawling with germy villagers, eating out of a communal kitchen and sleeping in shared cots. I shuddered at the thought.

Chris asked me to notify him if I ran into any problems and we rang off. I replaced the receiver, but then quickly picked it up again, and placed a call to my Aunt Ruth.

She lived a mile or so outside the village, on a farm that had once belonged to her sister. Ruth was not the country type, having lived in London most of her life, but she had come for her sister's funeral last summer and decided to stay on. I missed my Auntie Joan, but it had been good to have Ruth close by, especially in the tumultuous months following James Henry's birth.

Ruth picked up on the second ring, and we briefly exchanged greetings before I stated the purpose of my call.

"Of course they can stay here, Martin," she said after listening to my request. "It's quite safe. I have heat and the farmhouse is sheltered from the worst of the wind and flooding."

I promised to let her know once Louisa and James Henry were on their way. We rang off, and I went to the reception to speak with Morwenna.

"Cancel my afternoon patients and then you can go home," I said.

"But won't you be in need of an assistant?" asked Morwenna. "Al Large was just by and said the village hall is being turned into a rest centre. I can help set up supplies and what not. Granddad and I will be there anyway. You know how he can't stay away from the action."

"Neither will most of the villagers," I grumbled. It would certainly be a barking mad free-for-all, with every last villager showing up regardless of their need for shelter. This gave me even more reason to have Louisa and James Henry safely ensconced at Ruth's for the duration of the storm.

I was about to go check on James Henry when the front door of the surgery burst open and Louisa rushed in, drenched from the driving rain. She struggled to close the door against the ever mounting wind, and I went to lend a hand.

"It's raining cats and dogs out there," she said shrugging off her rain coat. "We closed the school at mid-day so the children could get home safely." Her hair hung wet around her face and I gently pushed it aside as she slipped her cold and wet hand into mine.

"Heat's not fixed yet?" Louisa asked and I shook my head. "No matter," she said and added, "how about a nice cup of tea?"

We walked into the kitchen to find James Henry happily sitting in his highchair. The heat from the cooker had warmed the room a little, but Emma, our child minder, had the presence of mind to put the baby in his thickest pullover. She was doing her best to feed James the sweet potatoes I had prepared the night before, but he was more interested in playing than eating.

"Is it alright if I go after I'm done feeding James?" she asked, using a cloth to wipe a stray dribble of orange mush from the baby's chin. "I'd rather get home sooner than later, with this horrible weather and all."

"Why don't you go now," I said, "and I'll finish feeding him his lunch."

She collected her things and headed out into the ever worsening downpour. Louisa put on the kettle while I washed my hands before resuming the task of spooning food into our squirming son.

"I'm glad you're home Louisa," I said.

"That's nice to hear," she answered, and leaned over to kiss me. Her lips were soft and warm, and I wanted to pull her against me but she had already moved away.

"Will you be wanting lunch?" she asked, taking a teapot and two cups from the cupboard.

"Something quick will do. Actually, I'm glad you're home early because there's a lot to be done before I take you and the baby over to Ruth's."

She stopped what she was doing, and looked at me with eyes that mirrored the ominous weather outside the kitchen window.

"What was that, Martin?" she asked quietly.

I swallowed hard. After months of living with Louisa, I had finally learned to recognize the warning signs of an impending row. Unfortunately, I still wasn't very good at avoiding saying the things that provoked the rows in the first place.

I cleared my throat and said carefully, "I thought it best for you and James Henry to stay with Ruth. I'll be busy at the village hall through the evening, and you'll both be safe and warm at the farm."

"You thought it was best," said Louisa, her eyes now hard pools of granite. "Did it even occur to you to ask me first, Martin? James and I are not some kind of chattel you can move around at your whim."

I frantically searched for something to say that would offset her anger. "Louisa, it doesn't make any sense for you and James to stay here…"

This was obviously not helpful for she cut me off by saying through clenched teeth, "Let me tell you what doesn't make sense, Martin – you and me. You don't know the first thing about being a couple."

The kettle started to whistle and she pulled it off the hob. "You can make your own lunch," she said and stormed out of the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Rain Check**

**by Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

The frostiness and tumult inside our cottage mirrored the weather outside. Although the stone of the house easily stood up against the wind, objects that weren't properly secured, such as empty rubbish cans, were starting to fly about. A glance out the window showed that the sky had turned the color of asphalt and the rain was now descending like an army of sideways sheets marching across the roadway. Based on the forecast and Chris Parsons' call, I knew the situation would only worsen in the hours to come. While Aunt Ruth's cottage was a relatively short drive over mostly high ground, there were some valleys that would soon start to flood. If Louisa and James were to have any chance of arriving before their route became impossible to traverse, they would need to start out soon. Equally as important, the sooner they were safely secured in the warm farmhouse, the sooner I could focus on my required medical duties at the shelter.

In other words, there was no time to waste arguing. Thus, desperate to get this issue resolved, I followed Louisa toward the stairs, determined to try again to convince her of the wisdom of my plan. Clearly, my first approach had been misguided. I'd been distracted by my impending responsibilities and hadn't fully thought through my conversation. I mentally kicked myself. Given the time we'd lived together, I should have well known by now that presenting ideas to Louisa as a _fait accompli_ was a recipe for disaster. Even when something made inherent sense – as did my plan for her and James to go to Ruth's – if Louisa thought I was making the decision for her, she would automatically reject it out of hand. Carrying on a conversation with Louisa reminded me of walking across hot coals – one needed move quickly so as not to get burned.

Before I could place my foot on the first riser of the staircase, I was stopped by a wail from the kitchen. I mumbled a curse as I headed back to my hungry son who had finally realized he'd been abandoned and was not so patiently waiting for someone to finish feeding him lunch. My conversation with Louisa would have to wait a few more minutes.

James Henry gazed up at me with tear-streaked cheeks, staring longingly at the small jars of food just out of his reach.

"I'm sorry, James," I said, settling in a chair. I grabbed the spoon and quickly scooped out a small portion of peaches. "I was talking to your Mum and—" I gave up trying to explain myself to a child who couldn't begin to understand me. "Here you go," I said instead, putting the spoon into his mouth. James hungrily swallowed it and, several bites later, I was rewarded with a huge smile. At least I could make someone happy today.

Suddenly, the room was filled with a blistering boom of thunder so strong that the house itself seemed to shudder.

James' eyes widened at the sound and he immediately spit out his food and started crying.

"It's alright," I soothed, cleaning up the combination of peaches and drool that dribbled down his bib. "It's only thunder from the storm. We're safe here; no need to worry." I proffered another spoonful of peaches.

It took more several gulps of food, and a full moment of silence, before James seemed to relax a bit and finally even cracked a smile.

The sound of creaking floorboards overhead reminded me of the conversation I needed to have with Louisa. And, I still had to pull together medical supplies to take to the village hall. I mentally reviewed the injuries and illnesses I'd be most apt to see over the next few days, what I had on hand in the surgery, and what I'd ask the chemist to bring. I'd also want to pack an overnight bag as I couldn't be sure I'd be able to get back to the cottage to shower and change clothes.

"Doc!" Morwenna's body filled the doorframe. "Doc!"

James's eyes darted to the new voice and, at the same time, he spit out another wad of food, spattering my tie. I glanced down at the mess and then up at my secretary, my annoyance growing. "What is it?" I snarled.

"Call from the harbor," she said.

I hadn't even heard the surgery phone; the rain and wind must have muffled the sound.

"Someone's hurt on one of the fishing boats," Morwenna continued, slightly breathless.

"How far out?" Experience had taught me that a report of an injured fisherman could mean the boat was still a good distance from the harbor – which meant that I would have up to an hour before my patient arrived – or that it had already docked, meaning I needed to get moving.

"Lifeboat station says they're just rounding the tip."

The tip referred to the entrance to the port. With an injured crewmember aboard, the boat would travel faster than usual inside the harbor. Still, the weather was bound to slow them down. I estimated I had fifteen minutes, more or less, before my patient arrived. "Did they say what was wrong with him?"

Morwenna rolled her eyes in apology. "Oh, right. They think it's a broken leg."

Another thing I'd learned over the years was that fisherman tended to be fairly accurate in their assessments of injury and illness, likely because – alone at sea – they were often forced by circumstances to fend for themselves with regards to medical care. And, given the potential financial costs in cutting short a voyage, if they said an injury was serious, it likely was.

I mentally reorganized my medical kit to include splints and bandages and quickly pulled James Henry out of his highchair leaving Louisa to finish feeding him. And there was still the matter of what to do about getting them to Aunt Ruth's, that is, if Louisa even agreed to go. With a severely injured patient waiting for me, I couldn't afford the time to drive them to her cottage, at least not now. Louisa could drive her own car—

"Can I come with you down to the harbor?" Morwenna asked, trailing after me as I once again headed for the stairs.

I ignored her, deciding it would be best to take the fisherman directly to the village hall, a shorter and easier trip than to the surgery. And, if that blasted place was to be my workplace for the next few days, it would be best to set up as quickly as possible.

"Doc, please. I can help and if this storm keeps up, you're going to need all the help you can get," she added ominously.

I stopped in my tracks and turned to face her. "We'll talk about it later. What I need at the moment is for you to pull together my medical supplies. The basics," I added. "Bandages, gloves—"

"Yeah, Doc. Got it." She ran toward the surgery, clearly anxious for something to do, and I turned on my heel and resumed climbing the stairs.

I found Louisa in the bedroom changing into a pair of jeans. She tossed back her hair and glanced up as I entered the room with James Henry in my arms. The look she gave me was anything but welcoming.

"Martin, why must you always be the one to decide what's best for me?" she asked, clearly prepared to pick up our earlier argument. "Sometimes you . . . well, you treat me like I'm no older, or wiser, than James Henry."

Just moments ago, I'd been prepared to resume the debate as well. The call from the harbor had changed everything.

"I need you to take James," I said brusquely. "They're bringing in a fisherman with a fractured leg and I need to get down there straight away. Parsons has told me to set up in the village hall for the duration of the storm; I've no idea when I'll be back."

She closed her mouth at the news, buttoned her trousers, and reached out for the baby. "Come here, little one," she said softly, all trace of the surly tone now gone from her voice.

"He might still be a bit hungry," I added, handing him over. "And I haven't had time to clean him up."

"We'll have a good face washing, won't we," she cooed, and I was reminded once again of how good a mother Louisa was. Her natural instinct to do what was best for out son would now be put to the test.

"The storm's only going to worsen," I continued, stepping to the wardrobe and pulling out a fresh tie while staring at the rest of my clothes. This was one occasion when I rather wished I owned some less formal attire, or even some surgical scrubs, as whatever I wore over the course of the storm was destined for ruin.

"There's no heat in the cottage," I said as I pulled out a few items, "and the temperatures will be almost freezing. The village hall will be full of people and noise and germs and God knows what else."

I took the clothing and, along with my razor and toiletries, stuffed them into an overnight bag.

"Aunt Ruth's cottage is warm," I called out from the lavatory. "You'll have comfortable beds on which to sleep, and plenty of good food. Not to mention Aunt Ruth's company." And, she's a doctor, I thought to myself, in case anything did go wrong.

I walked back into the bedroom, where Louisa and James Henry were now seated on the bed. I reached out and ran my fingers over my son's head. I started to give Louisa a kiss then thought better of it. Best to gauge her mood first.

"It's your decision, Louisa. Your decision where to ride out the storm with our son."

"We'll be fine, Martin," she replied in a flat voice that left me unsure whether she was still angry or had started to relent a bit.

I glanced nervously at my watch; my patient would be at the harbor in only a few minutes and I still needed to gather my medical supplies and make my way there.

"Just . . . let me know where you decide to go," I requested. "So I don't . . . so I have one less thing to worry about."

"Of course, Martin."

I nodded, gave Louisa a quick kiss on the forehead, and raced out the door.

* * *

Back downstairs, I was relieved that Morwenna was already pulling supplies from the surgery's cabinets and cupboards and less pleased that she was simply tossing them into a plastic bag. Then again, it was probably the only thing she'd found that would keep everything dry.

"This should get us started," she said, handing me one of the bags. A quick glance inside revealed medical and surgical instruments, bandages, gloves, suture trays and IV equipment. She'd done well.

Morwenna wrinkled her nose. "I wasn't sure about the drugs and stuff. If you pick out the those, we're good to go."

"_We_ aren't going anywhere," I said pointedly as I made short work of selecting the necessary medication.

"Oh, come on, Doc. You know half the town will come to the hall, whether they need to or not. You're definitely going to need help."

I did need help. Professional help, in the form of another doctor or a trained nurse, not a gangly teenager who would ask stupid questions and get in the way. The problem was that I wouldn't get the help that I needed; Chris had made that quite clear. I was on my own.

I mentally sighed. Morwenna was right. I could use an extra set of hands, especially if my first patient really did have a fracture. And my secretary, such as she was, was probably better than most of the alternatives. Good Lord, whatever was I getting myself into?

"All right, you can come along."

Morwenna clapped her hands and her eyes brightened.

"Just as the last time," I cautioned as I shrugged into my Macintosh, "you'll do only what I tell you when I tell you."

"Got it, Doc," she said even as I couldn't escape the sinking feeling that I'd made a pact with the devil.

A minute later, bags in hand and decked out as best we could for the weather, we stepped out into the storm. I tried to focus on what I'd need to do in the coming hours but, as I stole a final glance at the light in the upstairs window, my mind was instead on Louisa and my son.

* * *

The short drive to the port had been tortuous and, large and heavy as my car was, it had been difficult to keep the Lexus on the road in the face of increasing wind gusts that threatened to push us into the nearest ditch. The rain was so heavy that, even with my wipers on full, I could barely make out the road through the windscreen and drove in constant fear that I was about to run over something or someone.

By the time we reached the harbor, it was obvious that the fishing boat had docked, and a handful of people had gathered around, each trying to find an inch of shelter.

The last thing I wanted to do was leave the warmth and calm inside my car given that, once outside, all I had to keep myself dry was a raincoat. Beside me, Morwenna was even more scantily dressed; the last thing we needed was for her to become ill from exposure.

"You stay here until I sort out what's going on."

She nodded and, for once, seemed content to take my advice.

I blew out a long breath and opened my door. Or tried to. The wind was doing its best to keep the door closed. I leaned into it and shoved as hard as I could, quickly squeezing my body and medical bag through the open space and then taking care not to let my fingers get caught as the door quickly slammed shut behind me.

Someone in a dark poncho came running up and it was not until the man was almost upon me that I recognized him as PC Penhale.

"Good to see you, Doc." He was shouting to be heard over the wind. "Boat just got in a minute ago. Four crewmembers on board. One injury; looks serious. Lots of blood."

I inwardly cringed at his words as we made our way the short distance to the boat. Although it couldn't have been more than twenty yards from where I'd parked the car, by the time we reached it, I was already soaked through.

"I've set up a perimeter and am working crowd control."

As if there would be a crowd at the water's edge in the middle of a storm. I shook my head and followed him onto the boat and down the short set of stairs into the small galley and living quarters.

Although the inside was relatively dry, it reeked of vomit and I could well understand why. Even tied up to the dock, the small boat was being pummeled by the combination of rough seas and wind. Not only was I having difficulty standing upright without holding onto something, but my stomach was starting to get queasy. And I'd yet to see my patient . . . or the blood.

"You the doc?" asked a fisherman I didn't recognize.

"Yes, I'm Doctor Ellingham."

"In here," he said, leading me into the bunkroom. "Jacob's bad off. He was on the pilothouse trying to fix the radar when we took a huge wave over the forecastle. Knocked him clean off onto the deck. He busted up his leg; banjaxed it if you ask me. We headed into the first port, which is how we ended up here."

Which explained why none of the crew looked familiar.

I pushed past the talkative man and got my first look at my new patient. Immediately I realized two things. First, he was in severe pain and, second, the man had a compound fracture of his left tibia.

And just as quickly, I realized one more thing. It was going to be some time before I could return to Louisa and James Henry.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

**Forecastle (pronounced "foke-sill") is the upper, forward deck of a ship, typically where the anchor windlass is housed.**

**Compound fracture – a break in which a piece of bone is sticking through the skin**

**Banjax – to damage or ruin**


	4. Chapter 4

**Rain Check**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 4**

Reluctantly, I turned my thoughts from the safety of Louisa and James Henry to the injured fisherman. His eyes were tightly shut against the pain, and he cried out each time wind rocked the boat. I drew a deep breath to quell my nausea, so that I might assess his bloodied left leg. The tibia had penetrated the skin but did not appear to have severed any arteries. Had it been his femur, I would have been greatly concerned about involvement of the femoral artery.

Turning to the hovering fisherman, I asked if the patient were allergic to any medicine. "No. Jacob could eat the herring off a gridiron. Nothing bothers him."

"Bring me bottled water then. Let me flush out the wound, splint the leg and move him from the boat. The sooner, the better. This day will likely get worse." With that I touched the man's leg, and he howled in pain, pulling away from me.

"Sod off, bobber lip! Give me something for the pain. Dickie get me whiskey," he cried to the other fisherman.

"If you'll just let me look. . ." I reached again for him.

"Good God, man, haven't you had basic emergency training? Give the bastard something for the pain before you go prodding about." I looked up to see a tall, wraithlike man with pepper-and-salt beard, unkempt hair and intense green eyes glaring at me. "What do you have? Lidocaine? Morphine? Do you know how to set up a proper drip?"

"I'm getting to it," my annoyance quite clear. "But I must examine the wound and then determine medication." How dare this slovenly fisherman dictate my treatment of a patient. Just then, the man stepped next to me and tried to shove me aside.

"Let me have a go at it. Find an analgesic in your bag and will give him that first." So stunned was I by the physical intimidation of the fisherman, that I was forced to move as he bent down and took the injured man's hand. "Jacob, mate, it's me, Alec. We'll give you something for the pain. Then we'll have a look at your leg. The drug will lessen the pain, but it'll still hurt like blazes. We'll get you settled and then move you to safety. Are you ready for it?"

"Yeah, Alec. Yeah, I can take it," he gasped through clenched teeth.

"Give me four syringes of Lidocaine. I'll do a circle ring around the area to numb it. We can then clean it out, dress the wound and splint the leg. Have you any amoxicillin? He needs an antibiotic as well."

"You'll do nothing of the sort." It was my turn to take control of the situation. "I'm the doctor, and I'll treat my patient."

"Well, I'm a doctor as well. But I know more about fixing broken bones than you learned in your A&E rota. I'm Alec Harrison, late of Royal National Orthopaedic and on sabbatical following the death of my wife. Now give me the Lidocaine."

My mouth opened and my mind raced: Alec Harrison had been several years ahead of me at St. Mary's. He was one of those students who created a legend with his top marks and audacious behavior. He didn't know me, but I knew him. Knew of him. He had been the NHS lead on medical innovation and had been awarded an OBE for his efforts. What the bloody hell was he doing on a fishing boat in Portwenn?

Taking the drug from my bag, I quickly filled four syringes. Harrison did have the decency to ask me for gloves, which he pulled on seconds before I handed him the first injection.

Jacob's eyes flew open, and he looked warily at me and then Harrison. "Alright then," Alec leaned toward him, "the first one in will burn and likely the second. It'll numb the leg and make you comfortable. Close your eyes again. Think of your wife and kiddies. You'll get through this." During his monologue Harrison deftly jabbed the first area and then the second with only the smallest grunt from the patient.

He held out his hand to me for the second syringe, and continued around the torn flesh. No sooner had Harrison finished than the trawler took a massive blow from the storm. The patient was jolted, but only moaned as the Lidocaine took effect.

"Alright then, let's have the amoxicillin." Again, I extended the medicine to him, too mesmerised by his commanding presence to do anything else.

"Dickie, mate, do you have the water?" Harrison held out his hand without a glance, fully expecting the water to appear. And that's exactly what happened. "Jacob, I'm going to pour water into the wound and then clean the area. Tell me if I need to stop."

Under the sway of Alec Harrison, I returned to my medical bag and extracted cotton wool to clean the leg. Harrison, again held out his hand knowing it would be filled with what he wanted. "Have you a rubbish bag, Doctor," the first bit of courtesy he gave me. I took one from my case, more often used to catch my vomit, and moved toward the scene. The patient was grimacing, but his body was more relaxed than on my arrival. Harrison had calmed him and was now treating him impressively. "When I get him on ground, I'll try pushing the bone into place. Should be able to do it with a morphine drip. What sort of equipment do you have at your surgery?"

"Actually, the head of the PCT has ordered me to the village hall where a rest center is being set up. I'm the only medic on hand and will be needed there. My assistant is waiting for me outside."

"Right then, we should move Jacob there as well. I'll stay with him until we can transfer him to hospital."

"It might be a day or two. Forecasts are for a record storm," I meekly advised.

"Yeah, it hurled my bloody sailboat against the rocks outside of Boscastle. If Dickie and his crew hadn't seen me, I'd have drowned. They picked me up last night while hauling in lobster pots. We were headed into harbour when the storm blew us off course and Jacob got tossed about. We'll have to weather it here. Right Dickie, my mate?" Harrison's long right arm reached out to the fisherman who smiled and grasped his hand. "Right you are, Alec."

"Look, Doctor, I'm sorry for stepping in there. But I've just been through a rash of medical mayhem with my wife. I saw the needless suffering our profession inflicted on her, and I'm still damn angry. That's why I walked away from it all. Right after her funeral. The lord of all maladies, she had. Cancer. Lymphoma it was. Bone marrow transplant. Our daughter, Ellie, was the donor. On her better days, Glenys laughed that she now had my miserable DNA from Ellie. Actually, a combination of the both of us. Ellie's a brilliant girl. She's at New South Wales studying medicine. She wants to be an oncologist for obvious reasons.

"Jacob's settled a bit now. Do you have those splints? We'll get him off this trawler before we're all blown out to sea."

Looking about, I realised that the supplies were in my car with Morwenna. "No, they're outside with my assistant. I'll get them." I stood and the fisherman, Dickie, stopped me. "Look Doc, I've my oilskins. I'll fetch them. Where's your car?"

"Grey Lexus. Right next to the boat."

When he left, silence overcame the galley as Harrison bent over the patient and I humbly watched. Finally, he looked at me: "Who're you? Oh, and where are we?"

The last question was easier for me: "Portwenn. Maybe 10 miles from Boscastle where you tried to make harbour. Fishing village. I'm the GP. Been here about four years."

"Down from London, aren't you," Harrison titled his head in recognition of my accent. "What was it? Drink? Drugs? A woman? Made redundant?"

"No," I shook my head, "haemophobia."

A flicker of pity crossed his face: "Good Lord, you're Martin Ellingham!"

"Yeah, that's right," an admission that tightened my stomach as much as seeing the bloodied leg.

"Last I heard, you'd gotten over it and were coming to Imperial. Chief of Vascular wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that's right," I repeated, trying desperately to end his line of questioning.

Following a loud bang of the hatch, the rain-soaked fisherman descended into the galley: "The car's there, but no one's in it. No bag either. Locked tight as a tick, it is."

"Blast, let me find her." I pulled out my mobile, forgetting that Morwenna did not have a phone. Unlike her cohorts in Portwenn, she had eschewed this bit of technology for an IPad bought through a dodgy on-line enterprise. She frequently used it to peruse medical websites in an effort to second guess my every diagnosis.

"Never mind. I'll go to the surgery," although not relishing a trip through the gale.

"No, Doc," the fisherman held up his hand, "Ee's henting out there. Tell me where's to go." I gave the man directions to my surgery, instructing him to use the unlocked kitchen door. More medical stores could be found in my office, and he seemed familiar enough with what was needed."

After he left for the second time, Harrison regrettably took up our conversation. "Look Ellingham, sorry for interfering. It's just that I saw Glenys through too much suffering. My first thought was to stop the pain. You were right to assess the leg first. But Jacob pulled me out of the water, saved my life. I wanted to do what I could for him.

"If you need an extra set of hands, I could help. But your assistant might do as well given my piss-poor attitude toward medicine. Where'd she train?"

As if owning up to my haemopobia were not enough, I now had to confess that Morwenna was not a true medical assistant. She was only my receptionist with a keen, if untrained, mind for medicine. What little truth she could glean from the internet was the extent of her training.

"Well, she's something of a practise manager rather than a medical assistant. We don't have the funding for more than a GP. I did have a phlebotomist at one time, for obvious reasons," I noted wryly. "But really it's down to me. If you want to lend a hand, I'll likely need the help. Do you still have a proper licence, that sort of thing?"

"Yes. For another year or so. Hedging my bets should I forgive Hippocrates and return to it all."

For the next while, Harrison and I discussed how to arrange part of the village hall as a makeshift A&E and the nature of patients we might see. I explained that we had a disproportionate number of diabetics in the village as well as several pregnant woman who were nearing term. Typical childhood and adult ailments, of course, but most of the work would be treating storm-related injuries.

As we talked, our common medical training emerged, and we began to slide onto a more equal footing. The patient, Jacob, had fallen into a merciful sleep, and we agreed to splint the leg as he rested. Before we could get on with it, I heard Dickie call: "We're back. I think we got it all."

First down the stairs came the fisherman, his oilskins dripping water. Then he extended his hand upward to pull down a large, wet plastic bag. To my amazement, it was followed by Louisa, wearing an Anorak and Wellies. "We grabbed everything I thought you'd need, Martin."

"Louisa," I cried, "where's James?"

"He's with your Aunt Ruth. Do you think I'm such a terrible mother that I'd abandon our child in this weather?" she snapped. "The boiler repairman was at the surgery when Ruth stopped on her way to High Trees. She was asked to help with any medical emergencies there and took James with her. They're well-sheltered and should survive it better than the village. James is perfectly safe. The man fixed the boiler, and the heat's back on at the surgery. I was leaving for the school when Dickie came round the kitchen door for your supplies. Could I help with anything?"

"No," I tried not to betray my anger that she allowed my septuagenarian aunt to drive our son through the fierce rain. "Dry off and I'll take you to High Trees to be with James and Aunt Ruth."

"Actually, Martin, I'm going to the school," her tone clearly brooking no dissent. "The village hall's nearly filled, and Joe Penhale wants a second rest center at Portwenn Primary. As head teacher, I'll need to organise it all. Mr. Cooley has the heating plant running, and Allison Lane is making sandwiches should the power fail. There's a problem with the mains at the village hall, and Joe's looking about for an electrician. I don't suppose either of you knows about electrics," she crisply asked the two men.

Dickie volunteered, "Our Callum does. He's in the engine room checking the oil seals and pumps, but he could do in a pinch."

Before he could say more, the hatch was thrown open again. "Anyone on board," came the irritating voice of Joe Penhale. "Down here," called Harrison, as the phobic PC cautiously moved down the steps.

"Doc, I'm glad you're still here. We've got casualties at the village hall," Penhale announced dramatically. "Well, not exactly casualties. Bent fingers, some cuts. I took Morwenna to the hall earlier, and she's doing what she can. But we need you, doc. The lights are flickering, and Al Large is having a devil of a time with the electrics. Get there before we're all in the dark."

As opposed to only you, I thought unkindly of the moronic police constable.

Harrison spoke to Penhale: "Sir," oh God, I inwardly groaned, Penhale would be preening for a week at being called sir. "Do you have a means of transporting this injured man to a rest center? His leg should be immobilized during the trip."

Beaming at this rare show of respect, Penhale bowed his head in disappointment: "No can do. I've only my area car, and it's a bit cramped."

"We'll use Martin's Lexus," Louisa offered. "Its front seat reclines. Dickie and you," she inclined her head toward Harrision, "will carry him to the car, and I'll drive the four us to school. He can stay in my office away from the noise. Joe, could you please take Martin and Callum to the village hall to organise the surgery and electrics."

"But," I interrupted, "Alec and I need to splint Jacob's leg," I somehow felt marginalised in my medic's role with Louisa ordering people about.

"Oh, we can manage," Harrison shrugged. "Louisa's a teacher. Been trained in first aid, I should think."

"No, she hasn't," I insisted, recalling the many times she had called me to Portwenn Primary for the most minor mishaps.

"Actually, Martin, I am a trained first aid provider. It's a requirement for head of school. How nice that someone regards me as competent. Do you have first aid training as well," she turned away from me to Alec Harrison.

"A bit more than that, I'm afraid. I'm a doctor as well. Ellingham's asked me to help him through the storm."

"Good then," Louisa said in her take-charge voice. "Martin, you go on to the village hall, and Alec will be with me at the school. We'll take these supplies with us," she indicated the dripping bag.

"But you'll need more than that," I again tried to have some say in the medical care of Portwenn.

Harrison was not to be deterred: "Let me sort through the bag and see what else I want. Louisa and I can return to the surgery and pick up supplies after we settle Jacob. Okay with you, Ellingham?"

Suddenly, nothing was okay with me.

Continued . . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Rain Check**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 5**

I didn't think I had ever been wetter – not even in the bath. The wind had whipped the rain down inside the collar of my coat, sideways through my buttons, and even up my nostrils. My trousers had wicked up the puddles until I was soaked to the knees. My suit was wet, my shirt was wet, even my vest felt wet. My hair was dripping, my shoes squelched when I took a step and my socks had that nasty clammy feeling they get just before they give up the ghost and slide into your shoes. I could only hope that Morwenna had remembered to take the grip with my change of clothes along with her when she'd abandoned the car earlier.

I grabbed my leather medical bag, slammed the door of Penhale's vehicle shut and took a deep breath. I wiped the back of my hand ineffectually across my face before running across the road and up to the door of the Village Hall, following the sounds of habitation. I waved to Penhale and the constable sped off into the night with the fishing boat's electrician, on their way to pick up some spare parts and petrol for the auxiliary generator. As their tail lights faded into the gloom, a deafening crack of thunder was followed nearly immediately - before I could mentally count even one - by a brilliant flash of lightening that illuminated the sky and the emptiness of the street. That one was close, too close. I shuddered and then pushed open the door.

The Village Hall was anything but empty. On one side of the big room, tables and chairs had been hastily arranged in rows. Bert Large and what looked like half the WI seemed to be bustling around handing out cups of what no doubt was milky sweet tea, the quintessential British response to a crisis. On the other side, bags, boxes and suitcases of every kind surrounded pallets of blankets and air mattresses. And everywhere people. Old people, young people, tall people, short people, the lame and the halt, the familiar and the strange. The room fairly hummed with the sounds of gossiping biddies, whinging toddlers, grizzling babies, and shushing parents. And the smells. Builders' tea, musty oilskins, steaming wet wool, all overlaid with the rank miasma of too many bodies occupying the same space.

As I scanned the room for Morwenna, I made note of which of my patients were among the refugees. Even if there were no more storm related injuries, I would surely have my hands full with the typical range of medical complaints, real or imagined. I hoped the ones with chronic conditions had remembered to pack their prescription medications or it would be a challenging night to say the least. I wondered which ones had been directed to the secondary rest center at the school. I spared a brief thought for Harrison – his recent medical experience probably hadn't run to asthma attacks, gout, or angina and he undoubtedly was in for a rude awakening. At least he ought to be able to manage competently the seaman's compound fracture and keep an eye out for signs of concussion.

Morwenna apparently saw me before I saw her, as I heard her shout my name from somewhere to my right. Craning my neck, I could see her standing on a folding chair behind a group of people huddled in one of the back corners. When I caught her eye, she smiled broadly and waved frantically. I threaded my way through the room to where my receptionist was surrounded by a handful of pubescent boys in khaki shirts. As I pushed my way in her direction, I steadfastly ignored the hands plucking at my sleeve, asking for my attention. Unfortunately, there was no point in telling them to make an appointment.

"Hiya Doc! Isn't it brilliant?" Beamed Morwenna.

"Brilliant? Isn't what brilliant?" I eyed her suspiciously.

"The medical area. The boys and I have it all set up for you. Triage area, consulting area, operating theatre . . ." as she spoke, she waved her hands expansively at a tiny area cordoned off with a row of rickety folding chairs facing outward around a rectangle, in which several blanket-covered cots had been placed head to toe.

"Er . . ." I took stock grimly. No privacy, very little equipment, manned by hovering adolescents. Hardly ideal conditions.

Before I could inquire further, Peter Kronk came up beside me with an uncharacteristically hesitant look on his face. "Hi Doc. Me and the other scouts with first aid training thought we could give you a hand, you know, with the routine things. I have my handbook with me and everything." He waved an olive-green paperbound book at me. From the look of the spine, at least part of it had been read before, although I had no evidence that it was Peter who had done so.

I gave him an appraising eye. More enthusiasm than competence, I was sure, but I was likely going to need more assistance than Morwenna could provide before the storm was over, and with Penhale and the lifeboat crew out rescuing people, a few eager beaver Boy Scouts might be the best I could do. I thought regretfully of Alec Harrison and Louisa and how much better it would be to have them here instead of off at the school.

"Alright. Just give me a minute."

"Bollocks, Doc. It must be skeeting down out there – you're soaked." Roger Fenn came up behind me and put a tepid cardboard cup of tea in my hand.

"Obviously," I replied, gazing at the cup in distaste. "Morwenna, where did you put my suitcase? I need my dry clothing."

She looked at me in surprise. "I don't have your suitcase. I left it in the car for you."

"Of course you did." I sighed heavily. "But Louisa took the car up to the school with the patient from the fishing boat." I looked down at the puddle on the floor forming where my coat was dripping. Lovely. I'd be doing this in wet clothes then. I tasted the tea, grimaced, then knocked it back with all the enthusiasm one would give a dose of castor oil.

"Bad luck, Doc," said Roger, watching as I peeled off the mackintosh and my suit coat and my tie. "Let me see if I can find you a jumper and some warm socks somewhere. The Vicar's wife has the Oxfam box opened up in the back for those caught without dry clothes."

I grunted at him. I couldn't quite imagine being desperate enough to don socks from the Oxfam box, but it would get Roger out of my hair, which was helpful. I draped my wet things over one of Morwenna's folding chairs and, after a long moment, toed off my shoes and stripped off my wet socks. Cold wet feet were just frostbite waiting to happen. I took the paper towel Morwenna handed me and wiped off my face and hands.

There were about a dozen people sitting morosely in the chairs Morwenna had set aside for triage. They all seemed to be conscious, thank God. Nobody who couldn't wait a few more minutes.

"Morwenna, I want you to take down a list of supplies I need. Here's my mobile. Call Mr. Osborne at the Chemist's to get them ready and then call P.C. Penhale and have him pick them up."

She nodded enthusiastically and picked up her iPad. "Fire away, Doc," she said, fiddling with the device in a manner I hoped made it possible for her to take notes.

"Insulin, all he has. I need lidocaine, nitroglycerine, Azithromycin, Augmentin, adrenaline and hydrocodone. Oh, and aspirin, Coumadin and whatever statins he has on hand for those who forgot their meds. And Albuterol inhalers. See if he has any saline drip bags. All the gauze sponges he can spare. Hand sanitizer, bleach and Dettol."

"Got it!" She exclaimed, rushing off.

I took another moment to set Bobby Richards to making a list of the waiting patients in a grubby exercise book he extracted from his rucksack. Harry Pote, the undertaker's son, had the use of his leg back now, so I sent him in search of ice and a couple of ice chests to keep it in for cold packs and storing medications at the right temperature. A gangly redhead named Mickey scurried off to hunt up a couple of kitchen rolls and an electric kettle. Simon Chester volunteered to track down some extra sheets and towels from his uncle's hotel across the road.

This left me with Peter Kronk. I gave him the once over and motioned for him to follow me.

"What are we looking for?" he asked.

"Toilets," I replied, looking around.

"Well, er, I mean, I don't really need the loo right now."

"You and I are going to go and scrub up before we start." I saw him gulp as he realized I meant for him to help me with the patients.

"What are you waiting for?" I asked. Mutely Peter started making his way across the room and off we went, my cold bare feet leaving wet footprints on the gritty lino.

An hour or so later we had a rhythm going. Bobby served as receptionist – answering my mobile and checking in patients. Morwenna entered my patient notes in her iPad. Harry proved adept at taking temperatures and sussing out who could wait and who couldn't. Mickey and Simon acted as runners and Peter had demonstrated proficiency in splints, ice packs and slings for sprains and strains, once I had ruled out broken bones and other complications. Rupert Osborne, the village's new pharmacist, had proven quite willing to dispense prescriptions and make suggestions when what I needed wasn't on hand. I'd sutured some cuts, set one broken arm, assisted an asthma patient and diagnosed acute otitis media in a screaming toddler. It seemed we had it all under control. My clothes were even starting to dry.

That all changed when the always annoying Carrie Wilson pushed her way to our corner, leading a heavily pregnant blonde in obvious distress.

"Yoo hoo," she trilled, "Oh Martin, here you are." Her sigh was dramatic. "I have brought you a patient in need of your medical skills." It appeared I had been forgiven for the Princess Tinkles incident. Or possibly she wanted me to run this woman over with my car. It wasn't yet clear.

"Claire, this is Doctor Ellingham. He'll be able to take care of you. Martin, this is Claire Tyler. She's down from London, staying at the hotel. We're becoming quite a destination you know. She has a specialty line in custom travel itineraries for Americans. She started having some trouble so I called the ambulance but they told me to bring her here. " She looked at me and then hissed, poking my chest with her finger "She's not very pleased about this. Don't you dare annoy her – I can't afford to have her put off Cornwall altogether by the likes of you."

Right. Like giving birth in a rest center with an audience of Boy Scouts in the middle of a flash flood wouldn't be enough of a turn off.

Just then, the woman groaned, apparently in the throes of an intense contraction. "For God's sake, somebody help me . . ." she panted, clenching her teeth.

"Morwenna, help Mrs. Taylor sit down on one of the cots please." As I spoke, I made note of the time, watching to see how long the contraction lasted.

"It's Tyler, not Taylor, you idiot. And I'm not married . . ." she gasped as Morwenna and Mrs. Wilson helped her lie down on the cot.

I surveyed my little aid station. We were definitely not set up for any privacy, not the kind a laboring woman would need. I set the boys to finding some extra chairs and sheets to fashion a screen, and told Morwenna to send the non-urgent patients away for the time being.

"Tell me what happened," I asked the blonde, once she could speak. "Has your water broken? When did the contractions start? When is your due date?" I measured her blood pressure while I spoke.

"My water broke about two hours ago. The contractions started right away then. About 15 minutes apart to start but getting closer . . ." She broke off as her abdomen began to tense under her Tardis Travel Company tee shirt. It's logo was weirdly appropriate – "allons-y" indeed.

"Right. Well it looks like things are progressing. I need to examine you." I began pulling on a fresh pair of gloves and looking for something to use as a drape, wondering what doctor's advice she had ignored, as no responsible medical professional would have thought someone so close to delivery should be traveling, even to Cornwall.

"This wasn't supposed to happen yet. I'm only 33 weeks along," she wailed.

My head snapped up in surprise at this. If this was true, we were in trouble. I was barely equipped for a normal, full-term delivery here. A baby seven weeks premature would need medical care available only in a hospital.

"Are you sure about your dates?" I asked, as I draped a scavenged pink-flowered sheet over her lap. She was certainly big enough to be further along.

"Yes, you sodding idiot! I know exactly when I conceived. But I'm having twins."

Twins. Premature twins. The fourth and fifth babies I ever delivered were going to be premature twins. The thought was not a little terrifying.

"Yes, alright then." I forced my voice to remain steady. "Who is your GP? Did you tell him you were traveling?"

"I'm with a high-risk obstetrics group at Imperial in London. I'd agreed to stop traveling at 34 weeks but I guess that isn't going to matter. And they gave me a name of a specialist in Truro to call if I had any issues while I was down here. A woman. Doctor . . . Doctor Montgomery if I recall. I tried calling on my way over here but I didn't reach her. If I'd had any choice, I'd have gone straight to her."

Edith. I didn't know whether to be distressed or relieved that she wouldn't be able to get here from Truro to assist. I hadn't seen her since before James Henry's birth and I didn't need that reunion on top of this.

"Morwenna, call the midwife, see if she's anywhere nearby." I wasn't a fan of Nurse O'Brien but I didn't have many options for back up.

"I called her earlier, Doc. She's out at Highgate Farm with Camilla Peters. That's out past the moor and there's no way she could get here, even if she were done with that call out."

I was on my own for this.

Three hours later I handed tiny baby Rory to his mother, to join his sister Amy, born 10 minutes earlier. I hadn't been able to bathe them, but their faces were wiped clean and each was swaddled in a towel from the hotel. I didn't have a scale, but together they might have weighed in at six pounds, the size James had been at birth. For the moment they both seemed to be breathing alright. That was a relief, as was the fact that I hadn't vomited as I had done upon seeing my own son's birth.

The mum looked exhausted but triumphant. She hadn't been too pleased to forego the epidural pain relief she had been counting on for her delivery, but things had gone as well as could be expected under the circumstances. My biggest problem now was going to be keeping these tiny babies warm and breathing until we could get them to hospital. There were so many complications that could arise with babies this small.

I binned my gloves as the mother cooed to the twins, ignoring me and her surroundings completely. I figured they would be fine for a few moments while I spoke to the chemist and sent my Boy Scouts looking for spare nappies, baby clothes and some kind of basin to bathe them in. I still worried about their lungs, too. I wondered whether we could rig up a small enough oxygen mask.

I was surprised to see Mrs. Wilson waiting in one of Morwenna's chairs when I emerged from behind the screen of chairs and sheets shielding the sight if not the sounds of Miss Tyler's labor from the general public.

"How is she?" she asked me anxiously, standing and smoothing her skirt. I had no idea if she really cared for this woman or if she was just making sure I hadn't accidentally offended or killed an important business contact for the hotel.

"She's resting. The babies are breathing acceptably. I'm going to see if we have any oxygen."

"Did she call the father yet? She never mentioned his name to me – just referred to him as the doctor."

"She didn't say anything to me, but I'll have Morwenna offer to call whomever she likes when she's had time to rest."

"Oh, doctor, I'm so grateful. I was worried I'd be stuck up at the hotel in the storm with her, all by myself. It would be just like that scene in Gone with the Wind! And I don't know anything about babies . . ."

I was unprepared for what came next.

She wrapped her arms around my neck. Before I could protest, she had grabbed my face in both hands and was leaning in for a kiss. As I tried to push her away gently, I looked over her shoulder.

Bollocks.

Right behind the ever so annoying Mrs. Wilson stood Louisa in a dripping raincoat, with a murderous look on her face.


	6. Chapter 6

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 6**

I swiftly grabbed the horrible woman's arms and peeled her off my person. "You… erh…" I was prevented by saying anything more when Louisa swept over, took the mawkish woman in hand and hauled her to her feet. "Louisa!"

"You!" The furious look on Louisa's face contrasted with the cold water running down her raincoat and I swear I saw steam boiling off.

"Yes?" Carrie replied nervously. "I was… well… merely showing my gratitude for your dear Martin's caring for my young friend."

I stood stock still waiting for the storm, raging outside, to erupt inside the village hall.

"Right," Louisa said tersely. "Now, Mrs. Wilson…"

"Oh, _do_ call me _Carrie_," she tweeted in a syrup-laced voice. "We _should_ be friends."

"Sure, sure," said Louisa and her head whipped to the side to face me. "_You_ have anything to add?"

"Actually, no."

"Good then," said Louisa and she faced Mrs. Wilson once more. "Now Carrie, I was wondering if you might help me back in the kitchen."

She smiled at the woman and I could only wonder what might happen next. Louisa shucked her raincoat and I was glad to see that she was mostly dry underneath, her jeans and sensible sweater a good choice for the conditions. It was none too warm in the hall and exposure and hypothermia were likely to be my worst foes beyond disease or injury.

"Of course, anything at all! You know I was thinking that you and Martin should come to the inn for dinner sometime," Carrie pointedly played with her low neckline. "My treat of course." She batted her eyelashes like some sort of vamp. Obviously the woman had been staying in some sunny clime far from present reality as she was wearing a short, sleeveless, and sheer dress; one calculated to exhibit her curves.

"Oh, that _would_ be nice," said Louisa with fake sweetness, rafting on an undercurrent– one which was fast and deep.

"Now," Carrie nodded her head, "about the food, you said? If I had known you really needed cooking help, I'd have brought my chef along."

Louisa smiled insincerely. "Bert Large carted up a hamper of pasties to the school, far more than we need there. You think you could help me heat those in the oven?"

"Oh yes, pasties; so nice to eat; so handy. I don't eat them myself – far too common. But I'm sure you might like one, Louisa?" Carrie smirked at Louisa.

Taking Carrie's arm she shoved her, and not gently, towards the compact hall kitchen. "You go right ahead, be there in a moment."

Carrie toddled off on her three inch heels, casting a desirous look back at me; a look which Louisa saw readily.

"Louisa… it was… uhm…" I stammered. "Totally…"

Louisa's mouth came up to mine and she kissed me fiercely pressing herself against me with the hold of octopus. "I think that should hold off the witch, don't you think?" she whispered after breaking the suction.

"Yeah…" I could see the Wilson woman positively droop at the sight of our kiss. Yet her body language also showed she wished to exchange places with the school's head mistress at that moment – the flicking of eyelids, tongue licking her lips, along with large pupils, all but telegraphed the woman's craving. Frankly, she made my skin crawl.

"I'll sort _her_. You…" Louisa's liquid eyes spoke volumes, "Martin, you sort _them_," she nodded at the rank of sick.

"I will." I looked around where we had become the item of the moment, based upon stares and whispers. "How's Doctor Anderson and the fisherman?"

"Doing fine, Martin. Alec sent me up here to see if you needed help."

Need help? A small child toddled past and spit up on my still damp shoes. I sighed but did not shout.

Louisa grinned up at me. "I'm sure you'll take care of that," she said then stalked away towards the kitchen, dragging Mrs. Wilson with her.

As I was peering into the oral cavity of that now crying three-year-old he struggled against his mum's restraining arms. "Now, now, Frankie! The doctor won't hurt you, will he?" his mum spoke ineffectually as the kid screamed and writhed. "Stop kicking the doctor, alright? And I'll give you a sweet later!"

Further blows landed on my knee. "Ooh, good one. Ouch! Must hurt." Morwenna acted as a Greek chorus. She stood beside me ready to take notes.

"Shush!" I was being pummeled by a well shod foot, catching it on my thigh now instead of some more sensitive spot. "Open…" I struggled to push a tongue depressor between chomping teeth and lashing tongue, "your mouth!" In the brief vision of his oral anatomy, my torch showed classic white pustules on his inflamed tonsils. "Hm."

"Hmm? Wot's that mean Doc?"

My tympanic thermometer had been destroyed moments earlier by a well-flung arm so I was back to basics, touching my hand to the struggling child's head and neck. "He has a fever."

"Couse he does! Had one most of last week, didn't you dearie?" The blousy mum screeched into my ear. "And he said his throat hurt as well!"

"And you didn't bring him to surgery? Blast it woman! This child has tonsillitis at a minimum, if not streptococcus! What is it with you people?" I hissed at her.

"Doc… I… didn't want to bother you is all." She almost wilted. "After last time…"

"No! Of course you did not!" I said through clenched teeth. "Now you have exposed half the sodding village to a very infectious disease!"

"Well after the last time when Frankie got into your supplies, the way you yelled, I was sure you'd not want us coming back! And besides, strep? Naw! I had strep many a time. Never any need to doctor it. Just ice chips and honey in hot tea! Worked a charm for me mum, and it always did for me!"

I sighed, reckoning that it was such home grown remedies which likely hastened the spread of the Black Death, the outbreak of which killed off more than a quarter of the human population in the 14th century. As far as I knew _Yersinia pestis _had not yet returned to North Cornwall, but given the slobbish health habits here, it was only time.

I tried mightily not to fly off the handle at the woman who was now kissing her little dear on his slimy cheek, at least spreading the bacterium to herself. I binned the contaminated depressor and gloves and rattling around in the box sent up by the chemist, I found a large jar of amoxicillin and tipped twenty tablets into a small container. I printed the dosage on the plastic container with an ink marker and gave it to the woman. "I want you and the boy to take these. One tablet at mealtimes for him and two for you. Liquids and rest, and I'll want to see him in surgery in two days. And stop kissing him! You're spreading germs!"

"But I'm not sick! Not at all," she screeched. "Have a bit of a headache… and a sore throat…"

"Note that Morwenna." I straightened up to ease the strain on my back.

"Right. Got it. Mrs. Jones, we'll see you on Wednesday, then? Next!" Morwenna was keeping me busy, and at least she was using her iPad to make notes on the patients. I'd never be able to sort it later, with all the bustle and activity, without those notes. Morwenna gave me a bright smile. "Ready for the next one, Doc?"

Over the hubbub of people chattering, the keening of wind and the downpour outside, there was another sound; a sound of banging pots, strident female voices raised in anger, and then the unmistakable sound of a hand slapping a face.

Seconds later Carrie Wilson ran out of the kitchen, her shocked mouth hanging open, teary eyes, and a hand pressed to her cheek, where a red welt was instantly coming up. She was shouting, "I never! Oooh!" she sniffed and dashed off to the loo.

Carrie was followed by Louisa with a smug expression on her face as she walked swiftly to my side. As I continued medical admonishments to the mother and her ill child, Louisa came over and breathed in my ear, "Told you _I'd_ sort _her_. That cow!" She kissed my cheek and I felt myself blush.

The three-year-old's mum made smacking mouth noises and grinned hugely. "Well! First time I ever been to a doctor and he's getting snogged right in front of me!" she cackled.

Morwenna laughed. "Get a room, you two!"

Before I could react to Louisa's romantic attack, the lights flickered, then went out and stayed out, plunging us into darkness.

"Be calm, everyone!" It was Bert Large shouting, at least he was here and not that fool village policeman. "I got some hurricane lamps; we'll get them going in a jiff!" The sound of a loud crash came next so I snapped on my torch. Bert had managed to knock over some chairs but still stood upright, blinking in my light. "No harm, done, Doc! I'm fine! Hee, hee. Hello Louisa; didn't know you come up from the school! How are things going down there?"

I stepped to the sink and washed my hands well, muttering under my breath. Trapped in this leaky building, in damp and vomit smeared shoes, wearing clothes from the give-away bin, and trying to head off the next world pandemic, it was all I could do not to scream.

"Sorry about that back there," Louisa whispered. "That woman… nasty! The nerve of her, kissing my…" she stopped and gave me a hesitant look. "My… the father of my child."

At least I was still that much to her. "I can see that you are fit and furious," I answered. "Need a Paroxetine?"

"Not funny, Martin."

"Just asking if you require anti-anxiety medication."

"You, really…" she gasped, "you just don't get it, do you?"

"Louisa, it is _quite obvious_ that Carrie Wilson has been, and apparently," I nodded at Mrs. Wilson across the way who was being comforted by a young fishermen, "_always is_, on the prowl." I coughed. "I do not now, nor have I ever found the woman attractive in the least. Nor can I see how or why she, ahem, hankers for me, especially since I ran over her dog with my car."

"Poor thing - the dog, not the woman," Louisa sniggered.

"You really can't go about slapping people, you know. And it was an accident - the dog."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that, but she had it coming." Louisa sagged a bit, then totally changing the subject, asked, "You think James will be okay? With Aunt Ruth?"

"Last I checked mobile coverage is out and the landlines as well. High Trees is well situated on a ridge. I trust the winds will be gentler further from the coast and they'll have no flooding."

"So you're not worried, about James and Aunt Ruth?" Her apprehensive features showed as she chewed on her lip.

"They'll be…" I paused. "Fine. Fine. Both of them."

Louisa sagged against my shoulder. "Oh Martin, I just," her lip trembled, "What if? What if something bad happened? And here we are miles away?"

"Louisa, there is nothing we can do about it until the storm breaks." I said this but I was trying to hold my own feelings back. The thought of something bad happened to my family… quite put me off. Just recalling the car wreck Louisa was in and then the capture of James by the mad Mrs. T, made me queasy. Just then I felt a roaring in my ears, the room spun, and hot saliva flooded my mouth. This feeling I knew all too well and reached out for the bin… "No!" I shouted and suppressed the feeling of rising panic and vomitus.

"You okay over there, Doc?" Roger Fenn asked who held out an oil lantern which now lit our dark corner. "I expect a little light on the subject would be useful." He seemed positively cheerful.

"However can you be so calm?" asked Louisa. "The weather is terrible…" Her voice was drowned out by a tremendous crash of thunder coincident with a brilliant flash.

He shrugged. "Maureen and I and our boys are here, plus most of our friends, and the building seems to be holding up! We have food and drink; just have to wait it out. So why worry? Here safe in our little lifeboat…" he hummed a little tune.

"I know but," Louisa said, "I just can't help but worrying."

Roger smiled. "I think a little music would help, don't you?" He strode over to the stage, pulled a cover off the upright piano and began to play the off-tune instrument.

Louisa relaxed. "Good old Roger." He waved some of the people over to him who joined him around the instrument. "He seems so…"

"Whatever is he playing?"

Louisa chuckled. "It's called 'Stormy Weather;' from the 1940's."

I craned my neck and saw the calming effect the song had on the people. "Seems to be helping."

Louisa took my arm. "Don't need a Paroxetine now. Do you?"

Her touch did make me feel calmer. "No."

She patted my elbow and stepped away. "Those pasties won't heat themselves." She grinned and stepped from me into the gloom. "And I was going to add that Roger seems so happy." She indicated Maureen who was now perched on his knee, holding their twins in her arms.

"Roger…" I stopped. "That's his way." We watched as Maureen plastered kisses on their babies and on Roger.

"Yeah," sighed Louisa as she looked at me tentatively. "Ah, those pasties." She left.

I was given all of five seconds rest while I watched her retreat into the gloom before someone sidled up and coughed on me. "Doc?" a phlegm filled throat croaked.

I sneered and faced my next patient. "What is your medical complaint?"

Thunder boomed and lighting flashed and the queue of the sick, injured, and nervous continued. A bent finger, caught in a wind pushed door, two twisted ankles, a wrenched knee, coughs, runny noses, a case of diarrhea, a diabetic who'd forgotten her meds; they kept up in a steady stream. All the while the flushed and shining face of Louisa Glasson, who had just slapped the face of Carrie Wilson, floated in the fore of my mind. From the anger she felt with me this morning, her present actions were surprising.

I wondered how Harrison was making out with the compound leg fracture, as I went to inspect the new mum, who was also being checked on by Morwenna.

"Ain't they precious, Doc?" Morwenna beamed. "I thought to get some soft towels and sling 'em." She held a lit candle, wax dripping.

"Sling them?" I was puzzled.

"Yeah, yeah. On the telly, no I don't suppose you would watch that show, well, anyway," she went on brightly, "there's these London midwives…"

"Just show me what you've cooked up," I told her with irritation.

Morwenna parted the curtained corner and in the light of her flickering candle I could see Dawn Lamb, Pauline's mother, sitting next to the new mum, with a tiny baby slung under her chest in a towel tied about her. "See?"

Mrs. Potts, the green grocer was similarly rigged out, holding a tiny child to her bosom. "Just keeping 'em warm, Doc."

"Claire tried to nurse, but didn't have much luck." Morwenna giggled.

"Her milk won't come in for a few hours. They may need supplemental feeding… Morwenna! Do we have infant formula? And what's so funny?"

Morwenna stopped giggling. "Sorry, Doc. But I don't think I've ever seen you practice medicine without a suit on, is all."

"What I wear is _none_ of your concern." I checked both sleeping babies and the mother who was resting. Her padding was wet, but not bloody, so things were good on that end. The babies were small but their condition seemed to be good. The nappies and vests they were swaddled in made them look like tiny mummies. I took a breath and thought hard what I ought to do next.

"Babies and children; like the Ark in here." Morwenna laughed. "What we need is some livestock!"

"God! Perish the thought." I retreated. "Be careful with those candles!"

As I left the alcove I overheard Dawn Lamb mutter to the women, "Now I wonder 'bout the Doc. Is it boxers or briefs? Guess only Louisa would know!"

Mercifully I beat a hasty retreat and put my backside to their conversation, but I heard guffaws behind me.

Bert waddled through the crowd and gave me a mug of coffee which I needed. It hit me then. "God! I never ate lunch!"

"Right Doc. I'll get you some grub. You sit right here and relax, at least for a few minutes. Isn't this a helluva day?"

"Right Bert. A hell of a day indeed." I sank down on a folding chair.

"Poor old Doc. Here you are takin' care of us and who's takin' care of you? Well," he sniffed. "I have a weather sense, you know, and I think this thing will blow over in another day or two." He tapped his nose and shuffled off. "I'll fix you a plate."

I surveyed the crowded room, smelling the malodorous occupants, heard the keening of the wind and felt that Morwenna was right and Roger too. It _was_ a bloody Ark! But to be stuck in here for another day or two? God! I wondered what would happen next.

Old salts say to never whistle up a wind. It seemed that by merely thinking about our conditions brought even more disaster in the next hour.

I managed to eat mostly a cold meal, but Louisa brought out some hot pasties; apparently the cooker here was so ancient it was fueled from a propane bottle and was lit with a match. The pastries filled with beef, potatoes and veg, were made to be carried into mines, and they were literally a meal in your hand. I don't often eat them, finding them far too fat filled for my taste. Plus I rarely eat beef, for the sight of it cooking sets me off, but in the gloomy hall, lit by four lanterns and a handful of candles, the hot pasty certainly hit the spot.

Louisa stood by me and stroked my hair as I wolfed it down. "Better?"

"No lunch."

"Oh yeah. About this morning, Martin, I do want to tell you…" she said as she bent down to my ear.

Lady Fate interrupted in the form of Joe Penhale bursting into the hall shouting, "Red Alert! Doc! The doc, I mean the other doctor, I mean, Doctor Harrison, told me to come get you right quick, as that fisherman he don't look so good!"

I leapt up. "What's wrong?"

He stammered for a few seconds before real words came out. "Alec… Alec says for me to tell you that his foot's gone all cold and there ain't no pulse in it."

"Blast. I'll have to go."

"Can I come too, Doc?" Morwenna was at my elbow.

"What about me?" shouted Louisa. "It's my school."

"Listen you two!" the sodden policeman shouted. "Alec didn't say I was to bring back no medical receptionist or a teacher! He told me to bring back the Doc!" He took my arm and tugged. "Now!"

I stood in shock. "No pulse in his foot? At all?"

Peter Kronk appeared from nowhere and added, "Sounds like the peripheral artery is compromised." He dug a toe into the floor. "Just been reading about circulation last week. You'll have to operate, I suppose. But you know how!"

"Alec told me get you quick! The foot's gone all purple-like and he's moaning something fierce." Penhale gulped. "Made me sick just to look at him. Will you come, Doc? You gotta!"

I tugged on a damp raincoat while Louisa got into hers. ""Just stands to reason I can help, Martin," she went on. "It is my school and I can help you or Mr. Colley, whichever." I had lost this argument just like all our Christmas ones.

I turned to my other helpers. "Morwenna, I want you and Peter to keep an eye on things. Keep everyone warm and dry. Make damn sure they're all taking the various meds I've handed out. Morwenna you have the list."

She tapped her iPad and smiled. "Right. Got it right here."

"Bert and Roger can ride herd on the rest. But keep a close eye on those twins! If there's anything that seems off - grunting, straining, any sign of distress, send one of the scouts to get me!"

Morwenna smiled and put an arm about Peter. "We'll do our best, Doc."

"Right, Doc." Bert large looked at me with wide eyes. "And you keep an eye on my boy down there, right?"

Penhale brightened. "Oh, yeah. Mr. Colley and Al got the school backup generator going. Lights, heat, the works. Course the loos smell all funny, as it is an old building, erh, and the roof's leaking in spots," he blanched at Louisa's stare. "Sorry Louisa."

At the door, Roger Fenn took my hand. "Good luck, mate."

I looked back into the dim chaos of the village hall, and based on the unknowns I was facing, it seemed far more secure than the school perched on the cliff.

Penhale pried open the outside door and wind-whipped ice-cold rain hit us like steel needles.

"Thanks, Roger. I'll need it," I muttered then Penhale, Louisa and I trundled out into the maelstrom.

**Author's notes:**

**Paroxetine - an anti-anxiety and anti-depression medication.**

_**Yersinia pestis **_** - A bacterium which causes the so-called Plague - the Black Death.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Rain Check**

**by Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 7**

As predicted, the storm had taken a turn for the worse. Rain was blowing in every direction and land and sky had coalesced into a shifting wall of gray mist. I turned to Louisa and ordered her back into the village hall, but my words were swept away by the gale force winds gusting off the harbor. The tide was due to peak in a few minutes, causing the Platt and surrounding areas to flood from the high seas. It would be difficult going, even with the Bedford, and I couldn't risk having Louisa placed in harm's way.

Once again, I yelled for Louisa to head back into the hall, but she firmly shook her head. I knew that look all too well, and also knew it would be useless to argue. Cursing under my breath, I grabbed her hand before making a run for it. Time was of the essence – if Penhale was telling it right, the fisherman being cared for by Alec Harrison was in serious trouble.

The cold rain trickled down the inside of my waterproof, soaking my clothes in seconds. Penhale had fired up the Bedford, and was gesturing for us to hurry. A torrent of water whipped in front of my eyes, and I blinked a few times before I saw a flash of light coming from the road leading into the village. Louisa had seen it too, and we both turned as the Lexus skidded to a stop a few feet from where we stood. I groaned at the state of my car- the front bumper was hanging by a thread and one of the headlamps was smashed to pieces. There were tendrils of smoke coming from under the bonnet, and I could only imagine the condition of the undercarriage. I wanted to give the blighter who had done this a good bollocking, but I quickly curbed my anger when Harrison jump out, followed by Al Large and the two burly boat hands that had helped transport the wounded fisherman up to the school.

Harrison frantically motioned for us to come over, and I started to run with Louisa close at my heels. We got to the car as Harrison flung open the front passenger door; the fisherman was laid out on the seat, his leg elevated on the dashboard. He was quietly moaning, but didn't appear to be fully conscious. I turned to Harrison and yelled above the deafening wind, "What's his condition?"

"Piss poor. Swelling's worse and now he's got no blood flow to his foot. Risk losing it if something's not done soon. Didn't trust your village constable to get you there in time, so here we are. Anyhow, we barely made it through the incoming tide. You wouldn't have stood a chance."

Louisa, Penhale and Al were pressed behind me and the two boat hands were hovering anxiously behind them. I quickly assessed the man's leg, noting the pallor of his foot and the taunt swelling of his calf and ankle. Harrison had done a good job stabilizing the fracture, and I expected some swelling. But this wasn't just any swelling.

"Compartment syndrome," I yelled over the howling wind. Massive oedema to an extremity resulting in the loss of blood flow, considered one of the most urgent of surgical emergencies.

"You got it," answered Harrison. "I can do the cut down, but suspect he's got a nicked artery. That falls in your court, mate."

Unfettered anxiety rushed through me like a shock wave. I hadn't performed anything close to this kind surgery in over five years, and now I was being asked to repair this man's artery in a hall devoid of heat and light and without proper equipment and sanitation. My heart pounded in my chest, and the world swerved dangerously in front of my eyes. Bloody hell, could this get any worse?

I was preoccupied with calming my rattled nerves when Harrison started giving orders to the boat hands and Penhale.

"Callum, Dickie, go find something flat and sturdy to carry Jacob into the hall. You" he pointed to Penhale, "go help them."

"Right on it Doc," said Penhale. He scrambled off after the two men, and Harrison watched him go with a bemused look on his face.

"Your constable's got a few screws loose," he said.

I ignored him, instead forcing my attention on the patient lying in front of me; better to dwell on the facts in the hopes of preventing a full blown panic attack. Louisa was still at my side, and placed a hand on my arm before saying, "I know you can do this." She smiled and I gently pushed aside a strand of wet hair clinging to her face. Her presence went a long way in bolstering my resolve to see this through, and I felt my heart slow to a near normal pace.

"What can I do to help?" she asked.

"Tell Morwenna to take out the surgical packs and find us a table to operate on," I said before turning to Al, who had been patiently waiting for instructions. "We'll need hot water, and lots of it. Ask Bert to boil as much water as possible. And any kind of light you can find."

They both nodded, and Louisa squeezed my hand before she and Al ran towards the hall's entrance. They disappeared inside as the two boat hands came trotting out with a folding table. We laid it on the ground, and with some difficulty, transferred the ailing fisherman on the makeshift stretcher. He moaned and groaned as we gingerly made our way into the hall; the ground was slick with icing rain and the afternoon light was quickly turning to dusk. By the time we made it inside, I was soaked to my vest and pants, and wondered if I'd ever feel warm and dry again.

After my eyes adjusted to dim light in the hall, I saw Louisa giving orders for the trestle tables to be cleared of food and brought next to one of the floor to ceiling windows. The electrics were still out, and the meager light filtering through the grimy glass would be better than nothing. The boy scouts were scurrying about, collecting all the lanterns they could find, and Al was rigging a clothes line on which to hang them. Morwenna hurried over with the surgical packs and my medical case, the ubiquitous iPad tucked under her arm.

"Got everything you asked for, Doc. And you have a few patients waiting. Peter says it's nothing urgent by the looks of it. One of the boy scouts has a stomach ache, but I think he's had too much of Bert's cooking," she sniffed. "Oh, and there's little Sammy Lewis with a sore throat. Doesn't look like much, just a virus I'd say. And mom and babies are doing fine. Maureen's with them now. Thought it would be a good idea to have her help, considering she's had twins and all."

I let her prattle on, wondering what the PCT would say if they found out a thirteen year old boy was triaging patients and my so called practice manager was dishing out random diagnoses. The only saving grace was that Peter was smarter than the average teenager, and I hoped he would know enough to call for me if anything was amiss.

"Ask Peter to take the temperatures of the stomach ache and sore throat and report back to me," I grunted, as we edged the makeshift stretcher against the trestle table. Morwenna ran off, and after some doing, we were able to safely transfer the patient with the help of the two boat hands.

"Not a bad set up," said Harrison, surveying the improvised surgical theater. "I've operated in worse during my stint in the army."

I was about to sneer he could get away with operating under dismal conditions, considering orthopaedic surgery was more like carpentry while vascular work was all about finesse and precision. But I thought it best to keep my mouth shut. After all, I might need him to assist, or worse take over, if I found myself incapacitated by the haemophobia.

Harrison said he was going to wash up, and I started my examination of the patient. His foot continued to be pale, and not surprisingly, cold to the touch. There was no pulse to be found except for behind the knee, telling me that Harrison had been right in suspecting an arterial tear. I was carefully removing the splint, when Jacob let out a low moan and muttered, "My leg's killing me! What's wrong with it? Where the hell am I?"

"Portwenn Village Hall," I answered tersely. "The blood flow to your foot has been cut off by swelling and possibly a severed artery. You need surgery now or your foot will become necrotic and you might then need an amputation."

He shrieked and started thrashing about on the narrow table. "I ain't having no operation. Dickie, Callum, get me out of here!"

Callum was close by and hurried over to help.

"It's okay Jacob. You have two doctors here to help you." This did nothing to calm the ship's captain, and Dickie arrived to lend a hand. He was now trying to get up from the table, and it took everything we had to restrain him.

Louisa had heard the commotion and quickly came to stand at my side.

"Draw up a vial of midazolam. In my case, second drawer down," I yelled over Jacob's screams. She bit her lower lip, possibly remembering her fumbled attempt at drawing up the narcotic antidote before her horrid little friend went into cardiac arrest.

I gave her a reassuring nod and she scrambled over to my medical case. I watched as she carefully drew up the sedative and handed it to me. Harrison returned just as I had finished administering the drug through the patient's intravenous line.

"Found this," he said, holding up a torch. "Thought it might come in handy." He flicked it on, and the strong beam illuminated the drowsing man's leg. It was even more swollen than before, and his foot was now glassy white in the torch's glare.

I swallowed hard as Harrison said, "See you got him under pretty good. We might need more sedatives before this is over. I hope you've got more from where that came from?"

"A few more vials and limited antibiotics," I answered. "I hope we can get rescue in here sooner than later. He'll need more care than we can give him, considering the setup and limited supplies."

Harrison had started laying out the contents of one of the surgical packs on the trolley commandeered from the kitchen. "Don't know about that mate. I listened to the Met's latest forecast before we left the school and it said the storm would continue into tomorrow."

I glanced at the man lying prostrate on the table, and silently hoped we could keep him alive until we could get him to hospital. The risk of complications was very real and included septicemia, blood clots and shock, none of which we were equipped to treat.

"Right then, let's get started," said Harrison briskly. He turned to Louisa, "I bet you're not rattled by a little gore. You can be my assistant while Ellingham goes and scrubs up."

Morwenna had just returned from giving my message to Peter. "Hey, what about me?" she exclaimed. "I've had more experience assisting Doc Martin than she has."

Morwenna glared at Louisa and I was about to tell her to stop making a nuisance of herself when Harrison stepped in. "I'll need someone to take notes during surgery. Maybe you could continue on as you've done for the other patients." He smiled at her, and she visibly became putty in his hands.

"That's exactly what I'll do! Good thing I've got my iPad." She dragged a chair next to the table, and climbed on it in order to get a better view of the proceedings.

"Louisa, you keep an eye Jacob's breathing. I just need a word with Ellingham before we get started," said Harrison, quietly pulling me aside.

"I'll open up his leg and you can jump in once the artery's exposed." He gave me a searching look before continuing, "You know it's going to be very bloody. I assume you're up for it or you wouldn't have accepted the post at Imperial."

I looked away before answering, "Yeah, it's not a problem."

"It's like riding a bike, mate. You never forget, once you know how," said Harrison.

I had never learned to ride a bike – no one had ever bothered to teach me. Nonetheless, I knew what he meant. This was a procedure I had done hundreds of times at Imperial. It was simple really; find the damaged artery and repair it. In this case, I suspected a jagged piece of bone had sliced the popliteal artery, causing swelling and loss of blood flow to the foot.

"I'll go wash up while you get started," I said, turning on my heel and hurrying towards the lavatory.

I suddenly felt like an animal cornered and the urge to run overtook me. But instead I pushed my way through the mass of villagers, ignoring the furtive glances and whispers following in my wake. To hell with the lot of them, I thought, shutting the door of the lavatory firmly behind me.

I stripped off the moth ridden jumper that had been part of my attire for the past few hours, and was about to start scrubbing up in my vest when the door swung open. Bert entered, struggling with the weight of a large cast iron kettle.

"Brought more hot water, just in case. Can never have enough, under the circumstances." He poured the water in the sink, and bellows of steam rose to the ceiling. "We're all rooting for you and best of luck. Not that you need it," he added hastily.

I grunted a response and plunged my hands into the steamy water, washing the best I could with the sliver of soap sitting on the edge of the sink. Bert offered me the less than clean towel that had been tucked inside the waist band of his trousers, but I opted for a paper towel instead. Cleanliness was at the bottom these idiots priority list, along with healthy eating and exercise. It still amazed me the village hadn't yet been decimated by a virulent strain of salmonella or E. coli, or that the rate of coronary artery disease wasn't any higher than it was. But this was the lot of the village GP, struggling against the tide of ignorance until one retired or just died of plain exhaustion.

I wormed my way past Bert, careful not to touch anything; best to keep the surgical field as sterile as possible. A chorus of "Good luck, Doc," followed me as I walked to where surgery was already in progress. Harrison was masked and gowned, while Louisa stood next to him, ready to hand over the instruments lined up on the trolley. Al Large stood on the broad window sill, and was shining the torch over the surgical field.

There was blood everywhere; spurting from the wound, soaking the patient's clothes, dripping from the table, pooling on the floor.

The scene held all the hallmarks of a macabre dream, but I knew to be wide awake when the smell of fresh blood hit me like a ton of bricks. I faltered, a cold sweat breaking out on my brow and the pasty I had eaten earlier had started to uncomfortably churn inside my stomach.

"There you are," said Harrison, glancing my way. "Gown up. I'm almost done here."

Louisa gave me an encouraging smile, and I pulled myself together. This was my chance to redeem myself and prove I was no longer crippled by the blasted phobia.

I did as I was told, slipping on a gown, mask and gloves. After taking a deep breath, I took over from Harrison, who had just finished making a wide excision on the side of the patient's calf. His work was neat and precise, and I grudgingly admired the orthopaedic surgeon's workmanship before examining the wound bed.

I asked Al to angle the torch to the right, and that's when I saw the blood seeping from the damaged artery. By then, my sole focus was on the surgical site in front of me to the exclusion of everything else; I could have been standing in the middle of busy Trafalgar Square and not taken any notice.

Harrison handed me a small clamp before I had the chance to ask for it. And so it went - Harrison supplying me with what was needed while I isolated the leak and sutured the tear. It seemed to take hours, but I was done in less than twenty minutes, remarkable considering the conditions under which we were operating. Actually it was remarkable that I had been able to do this at all, and I stepped back, relieved that I had been to finish the surgery without vomiting on Harrison or the patient.

I didn't close up as the wound needed to remain open to prevent a recurrence of the swelling. Harrison took a set of vital signs while I administered pain medication through the intravenous port. The patient was heavily sedated and wouldn't awake for a few hours yet, a good thing considering he needed to remain still to avoid hemorrhaging from the surgical site.

Now that the rush of adrenaline was over, my mouth was dry and my stomach felt a touch queasy. A delayed reaction to a stressful situation, I thought, binning my gloves and gown. Louisa had gone in search of a blanket for Jacob, and Harrison was updating Callum and Dickie on their shipmate's condition. After telling Morwenna I'd be right back, I walked across the hall and towards the kitchen for a drink of water.

The wind was still howling, and it was now pitch black outside the windows. It was also rather dark inside the hall, with just a few lanterns and torches casting long shadows against the walls. There were clusters of villagers assembled here and there, playing cards or Chinese checkers while others held sleeping children.

I suddenly remembered James Henry and wondered how he was faring at High Trees. My aunt wasn't accustomed to caring for infants, or children for that matter, and I hoped she knew enough to ask for help if she ran into trouble. Someone at the convalescent home must have experience with babies, I told myself, trying to quell my disquiet. There was nothing I could do from here, so I tried pushing this latest worry aside and stopped in to check on the newly delivered mother and her babies.

Maureen was holding one of the newborns while other was asleep on his mother's chest. Satisfied that all was in order, I quickly went through to the kitchen, relieved that the pesky Carrie Wilson was nowhere to be seen. That woman was a vamp and troublemaker, and the less I saw of her, the better. I smirked at the treatment she had received at Louisa's hand, and hoped she would give me a wide berth from now on.

The kitchen was empty, except for a pot of soup simmering on the cooker. I helped myself to a bottle of water, drinking most of it in one gulp.

"There you are."

I turned to find Louisa standing behind me, a warm smile on her face.

"I brought your grip from the car. Thought you might like to freshen up and have a change of clothes," she said, holding up my bag. It seemed like days had gone by since I had packed it, but it had really been just a few hours.

I looked down at my sweat stained vest and trousers splattered with blood. "Thank you. I look a sight, don't I?"

Her expression suddenly changed from playful to serious. "You were brilliant out there. I'm so proud of you, Martin."

She dropped the grip and walked up to me, slipping her arms around my waist. I felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders and neck at her touch, and I kissed the top of her head before saying gruffly, "I'm glad you were there."

She tilted her head towards mine and kissed me. "I love you, Martin Ellingham," she whispered and kissed me again. I pulled her closer, and our embrace deepened until I worried we might get carried away. After all, half the village was within ear shot, and it wouldn't do for them to find the head mistress and the local medic going at it on the kitchen table.

But I shouldn't have worried – as usual, the villagers where hell bent on making my life a living misery.

Bert bustled in and let out a low whistle before we had the chance to step apart. I glared at him, and was about to tell him to mind his own business when we heard a series of screams coming from the main hall.

Louisa and I looked at each other before running out to investigate. The screams had now turned into a torrent of abuses coming from behind the privacy screen where mom and babies had been resting just minutes before.

"You bloody bastard! Look what you've done to me!"

We came upon Claire Tyler, the newly delivered mom of two, sobbing hysterically while Alec Harrison stood next to her, his face ashen and eyes widened in shock.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: SINCERE apologies for the long time lag between chapters. Unfortunately, real life sometimes intervenes. Appreciate all of you sticking with us . . . I'm sure the next chapter will be much more timely!**

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**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 8**

I stood there, taking it all in. Or at least trying to. My eyes flicked between my patient – clearly irate – and my newly found medical comrade, who was clearly distressed. At least the babies were asleep in their makeshift cots. The rise and fall of their little chests assured me they were still alive; I'd check them again once we'd resolved the current . . . situation. That said, I was unsure what to say or do in that respect given that defusing personal confrontations was definitely not my strong suit.

I cleared my throat and reached for the one thing that was comfortable to me, being a doctor. "Mrs—" Oops, I corrected myself. The woman had told me earlier that she wasn't married and the last thing this situation needed was my making that mistake again. "Ms.," I continued smoothly. "Ms. Taylor."

"Tyler," I heard Louisa say under her breath from her position next to me.

"Mrs. Tyler, are you alright?"

"Do I look alright?" she barked at me.

"Medically," I added, moving quickly to her side and giving Harrison an annoyed glance. Whatever he'd said or done had upset my patient and, in her current state, that was something she could ill afford.

"Yes, of course, I'm alright," she replied, and this time she was one annoyed at my question.

"Hmm," I said, feeling her pulse racing beneath my fingers, concerned that her BP would also be elevated. "I'd best have a look at you," I said to her while signaling with a quick nod of my head that Harrison should leave us.

"But wait - I can explain," Harrison said, standing firm.

"Not now," I said brusquely, reaching for the BP cuff and pulling my stethoscope from my pocket. "You've already done enough," I added for good measure.

"Come on," Louisa said and, in my peripheral vision, I saw her pulling him away from the makeshift room. "Let's get a cup of tea."

I refocused my attention on Ms. Tyler, wrapping the cuff around her upper arm.

"I suppose you want to know what that was all about." She sniffed back her tears.

"No."

It never ceased to amaze me the amount of gossip to which I was routinely exposed. For some unknown reason, my patients assumed that I wanted to hear about their latest escapades, flirtations and foibles when, in fact, I had no interest in any of it – other than the possible effect it might have on my patient. And even then, the burden of having to listen to mindless drivel often outweighed the slight possibility that, within it, would be some minutiae of information that would help me with a diagnosis or treatment.

"It's all his fault, you know," my patient persisted. Then, a beat later, "Well, it is. He promised to take care of me. Now what am I going to do?"

I nodded absently, more concerned with the woman's blood pressure than whatever babble was coming out of her mouth.

"You don't care, do you?"

"I care," I said through gritted teeth, "about your health. That's all."

To my surprise, the woman's BP was nearly normal. I finished examining her, relieved that she was doing as well as I could have expected under the circumstances and that whatever Harrison had said appeared to have had no detrimental effects on her health. Her babies, too, were holding their own, although the boy's breathing was more labored than I liked; I'd need to keep a close eye on him.

Satisfied for the moment, I checked in with Peter, who indicated I had no new patients, and then made my way to the room within the rec center that had become the erstwhile dining area. There I found a morose-looking Harrison and an equally glum Louisa, sitting across from each other at one of the room's half-dozen rickety tables.

"Martin," Harrison said, looking up at my approach. "Sorry to have upset her like that. I didn't think—"

"No, you didn't."

"Martin!" Louisa turned to me with an expression of disapproval. "You don't even know what happened."

"Nor do I care."

"Look here," Harrison said. "I'll . . ." He took another long look at me and then stood up from his chair. "I'll just go check on the fisherman. Let me know if you need me for anything."

"I think you've done enough for now," I said, sliding into the folding chair Harrison had just vacated across the table from Louisa and accepting a cup of tea from her. It was cold and lacked milk.

"Martin," Louisa said as soon as Harrison had departed. "You didn't need to be rude."

"I have enough worries about caring for a newborn mother of premature twins in this—" I waved my hands about. "In this . . . place, without the added complication of Harrison upsetting her. The last thing she needs is a spike in blood pressure."

"Have you considered it's not his fault? Don't you even care what happened?"

"Not really."

"Well it might interest you to know that Claire is Harrison's wife's sister."

"Claire?"

"Your patient," Louisa clarified.

"I thought Harrison's wife was dead." I had a vague recollection of Harrison telling me that he was on the fishing boat to help deal with his grief over her death.

"She is. And that's where the problem started."

Oh, God. It seemed I was doomed to hear the entire sordid tale and I didn't even have a decent cup of tea to get me through it. I snuck a glance into the main room, praying that someone might suddenly need my medical assistance.

"Harrison said that Claire's always getting herself into money trouble, men trouble and so forth, and her sister was always bailing her out. The latest problem is that she's broke and had no place to live – so she'd moved in with her Harrison and his wife. When Harrison's wife got sick, Harrison promised that he'd take care of Claire and that she could live with him when the babies were born until she could find a place on her own."

It all seemed rather complicated and certainly not the story I was expecting based on what little I'd overheard of the conversation between Harrison and my patient – who it now seemed was also his sister-in-law.

"So what's the problem?"

"Harrison told me that when his wife died, he couldn't stand to live in their home without her."

Strangely, I could relate to that. I'd lived in our home on my own for several years. Now that Louisa and James Henry were there as well, I could no longer imagine our little cottage without them.

Louisa was still talking. "So, he sold the house, donated most of his money to charity, and took off leaving Claire with no place to live. She found out where he was and came down here after him. And was quite upset when she found out he'd given away everything and run off to a fishing boat."

I tried to sort it all out in my mind. Harrison had apparently promised his sister-in-law some sort of support, including his home and then he'd backed out of it and instead given his money to charity. Unfortunate for her perhaps, but not worthy of the row I'd just witnessed.

"He's not responsible for her," I said before realizing that I'd somehow involved myself in this soap opera.

"No, but I think he now feels somewhat badly about it. Here she is on her own, with two babies and no place to go."

I took another swallow of my tea and grimaced at the stale, cold taste. "I'm sure she'll find something," I replied lamely, now wondering where the woman and her babies would go once we were all out of this mess. Of course, my interest was purely medical.

Speaking of children reminded me of something. "Have you called Aunt Ruth lately?" I asked, "to check on James Henry?"

Louisa frowned. "No. I thought you were going to do it."

It was now my turn to frown. "I have been somewhat busy," I added, stating what to me was the obvious.

I pulled out my mobile and dialed the familiar number. It rang. And rang. At the third ring, Louisa bit down on her lip as she often did when worried. I took a cleansing breath; with our energetic son to care for, Aunt Ruth might not be able to grab the phone in an instant.

When my call didn't go into voice mail after the fourth ring, I couldn't quite bring myself to meet Louisa's eyes.

"Martin?" she said hesitantly, hoping that I would give her the reassurance we both needed.

"I'm sure she's just—" Darn it all, I wasn't sure of anything. Why hadn't Ruth answered and, more importantly, why was I unable to leave a message. _Think_! I told myself. I did and the thoughts that rushed through my head were not reassuring.

At that moment, PC Penhale entered the room, heading for the pot of coffee. "Doc, Louisa," he greeted us with a curt nod. His shoes squeaked on the floor and water dripped from his pants and shirt.

"You should change out of those wet clothes," I said.

"No time, Doc. Lots of emergencies – flooded cars, vehicular accidents, downed power lines. Being the only policeman in the area, it's all on my shoulders. It's a huge responsibility but—" He puffed out his chest. "I'm up to it."

As always, I only half listened to him but the half that heard his words gave me a bit of hope. "Penhale, do you perchance know if the power is out anywhere in the area?"

He nodded as he sipped his coffee and grimaced – probably because it was as cold and tasteless as my tea. "I've seen some homes that are dark."

"That's probably it," I said triumphantly to Louisa as Penhale gave me a questioning look.

"Aunt Ruth isn't answering her phone," I explained.

"She has James Henry," Louisa added. Suddenly, she perked up. "Joe, is there any chance you could drive out there—?"

"Sorry, Louisa. The road is completely flooded. No chance for any car or jeep to get out there now. Or any time soon," he added and I glared at him.

Across from me, Louisa sagged with dejection. "Martin, what are we going to do?"

"Don't worry Louisa," Penhale said. "The Doc's aunt is a tough old cookie."

When both Louisa and I gave him disapproving looks, he swallowed hard. "Well, not old exactly. Older than I am. And you are." He continued to babble. "She's tough; I'm sure she's fine. And James Henry is fine."

Of course none of us was sure of anything at the moment.

"Doc!"

I turned to find Peter Cronk at the door, eyes wide and panic etched on his face. Peter had proven that he wasn't one to overreact, so the fact that he seemed quite worried only added to the gnawing in my gut regarding the whereabouts of Ruth and our son.

"What is it, Peter?" I said calmly.

"It's one of the babies. It can't breathe."

I was out of my seat in an instant running toward the infants, Peter trailing behind me.

"How long has he been like?" I asked.

"Not long. We were checking them every few minutes, just as you told us."

I could hear the mother wailing as I arrived at the makeshift cots.

What's happening?" she cried. "What's wrong with her?"

Her? So it was the female infant, not the male about whom I'd had some concerns a short time ago. As I skidded to a stop, a young man whom I vaguely recognized from visits to the surgery was standing over one of the cots, clearly distressed. Alerted by the mother's cries, several of the room's other inhabitants started to crowd around.

"Out of the way," I ordered, grabbing my stethoscope from where I'd left it on a nearby table. The boy seemed only too happy to oblige and, I noted with some satisfaction, started to push the other onlookers away as well.

No time to think about that now. A quick glance at the baby showed she was indeed in respiratory distress. I didn't need my medical instruments to tell me that her breathing was shallow and labored and she was becoming cyanotic. Damn!

I lifted her from the cot and moved a short distance away from the mother, the crowd, and everything else that provided distraction.

I listened carefully to the infant's lungs, now hearing as well as seeing the difficulty her immature organs were having in processing sufficient air. It was definitely neonatal respiratory distress syndrome, which meant she needed oxygen – in a hurry.

"Morwenna!" I called out, looking around wildly for my receptionist. "Morwenna!"

"Here, Doc!" The girl seemed to appear out of nowhere. "What'd you need?"

"Oxygen. Did you bring any from the surgery?" The mask was too big for a neonate, but we could probably rig some sort of oxygen tent that would at least provide her some relief.

She shook her head. "No. You didn't tell me—" She stared down at the baby in my arms struggling to breathe and seemed to grasp the enormity of the situation. "I can go get it. I know exactly where it is."

"Morwenna, you can't go out in this weather—"

"PC Penhale can take me. It's only a short trip. We can be back in a jiffy. You just . . . do what you usually do until I get back."

Before I could say a word, she ran off, screaming for Penhale. The next thing I new, the two of them were throwing on their parkas and heading out the door.

"How's she doing, Doc?" Peter asked, suddenly appearing beside me.

"Not good," I replied honestly. "Can you go get me the IV kit. And then find Harrison."

Although medication wouldn't help, giving the child fluids would stabilize her blood pressure and blood sugar. The infant needed oxygen and, until it arrived, there wasn't anything else I could do to improve the situation.

He sighed. "I should have checked her sooner—"

I knew exactly what was troubling him. He worried that he and his mates hadn't checked on the baby frequently enough, that they had missed something. The same things worried me. What he didn't realize and what I knew to be fact was that premature babies typically had underdeveloped lungs. That's why they needed to be in a neonatal nursery with oxygen and monitoring devices and all of the latest technology the medical community had to offer.

Instead, we were trying to care for not one but two preemies in a recreation center in the middle of a major storm. No matter how attentive any of us were, the medical condition would eventually manifest itself and there was precious little I could do. The oxygen would help but it was no substitute for the specialized care the child needed. Immediately.

"Peter, you and your friends likely saved the child's life by noticing that she was having trouble breathing and alerting me right away."

The boy looked down at the infant and then up at me with eyes that glistened with tears. "But she could still die?"

I sighed. "Yes, she could. I'm going to do my best to keep that from happening. Now go get me that IV kit."

After Peter had returned and I'd managed to place the IV in those tiny veins, I glanced down at my watch. It had been nearly twenty minutes since Morwenna and Penhale had left. The trip to my surgery took less than five minutes by car and the route was unlikely to be flooded. Even with delays for weather, they should have been back by now.

I gently stroked the baby's chest as it now heaved up and down. Her little mouth was open, trying to take in whatever air she could. She was headed in a downward spiral.

I was a doctor. I should do something, anything. And yet, I could do little more than stand by helplessly waiting for the one thing that would keep this baby alive.

I glanced again at the door. Where in the hell were Penhale and Mowenna with that oxygen?


	9. Chapter 9

**Rain Check**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 9**

Where, indeed, were Morwenna and Penhale with the desperately-needed oxygen? My question was soon answered as the for-once-welcome voice of my shrill receptionist rang through the village hall: "Doc, we've got casualties!"

Rushing toward the noise, torch in hand, I saw Morwenna leading a bedraggled band of men and women with the telltale appearance of pensioners on a day trip. Several were supporting each other as they limped toward folding chairs, gingerly rubbing arms or shoulders and holding tight to makeshift bandages covering wounds I hoped would be superficial.

"Me and the PC were leaving the surgery when this lot turned up looking for you, doc. I brought them here and the PC is fetching the others from the moor. We've got oxygen for the twins," Mowenna prattled on, "and the doctor has baby stuff."

"Doctor," I queried Morwenna, just as Edith Montgomery appeared in my peripheral vision. I watched with trepidation as she removed a hooded trench and handed the wet garment to a gawping Al Large. "Edith," I stammered, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm about to consult with my patient, Ellingham. But if you'd prefer a catch-up, I'm sure her premature babies won't mind waiting for this incubator." Here, she gestured toward a large box, water dripping from its plastic wrapping, being carried by Eddie Rix and his son, Roscoe. Behind them stood Harry Pote and Rupert Osborne, each lugging two cylinders of oxygen, slick with rain.

Regaining my composure, I quickly ushered Edith into the flimsy enclosure where the female twin was now gasping for air. In what seemed to be seconds, Edith alternately introduced herself to a weeping Claire Tyler, directed Eddie and Roscoe, in the opening and setting up of the incubator and expertly connected the oxygen supply. Soon the baby called Amy was nestled into the incubator, her breathing less laboured and the cyanosis fading.

"We'll have his sister become acclimated and then pop in Rory for a bit. As the second born, he's more likely to have respiratory distress syndrome, so we'll take no chances. Alright, then, Ms. Tyler has your milk come in yet? We need a feed for these babies."

Eyes widened by Edith taking control of what minutes before had seemed a hopeless situation, Maureen Fenn responded on behalf of the overwhelmed mother: "No, ma'am. She's having a bit of trouble. We have infant formula, but Doc Martin thought it best to wait a bit. The colostrum from mother's milk and all that is much better for baby, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, of course," retorted Edith. "But these two need nourishment now. I can start a feeding tube for Amy, but it's best to have an oral feed for Rory. Let's first have a look at his sucking reflex." Edith took the baby from Maureen and unceremoniously stuck her gloved index finger into his mouth and he sucked hungrily.

"Ms. Newcross, you seem a competent girl, please take this and follow the directions carefully. Wash your hands thoroughly and make certain you mix it correctly."

Edith handed Morwenna a container of formula and two bottles, smaller than any I had ever seen. Their contents would have been ingested by James Henry in seconds, even as an infant. The look Morwenna gave Edith was one reserved for her grandfather, and that sparingly. If she had curtsied, I would not have been surprised. Morwenna was clearly in the thrall of Edith Montgomery.

Finally, the mother composed herself and babbled to Edith: "Oh, Dr. Montgomery, I'm so relieved that you're here. Dr. Bisk at Imperial said you are fantastic. I can't believe you received my message and made it through the storm. How ever did you get here?"

"I was to meet a friend in Boscastle following a conference in Plymouth. Fortunately, I had the incubator with me to demonstrate new techniques for treating preemies. Dr. Bisk may have told you that I'm a fertility specialist and that, by its nature, makes one an expert in premature deliveries and multiple births."

"I have twins as well," Maureen bravely spoke up. "I remember you now. You did the study on geriatric parents in Truro. Fenn – my husband – and I were in your study. I was 50. The oldest mum. Do you remember me?"

"Of course," Edith cooed, in the bedside manner she had cynically demonstrated to me on many occasions. "Really, it's simple, Ellingham," I could still hear her say. "Only agree with them. Make them feel better about themselves. It's not all that difficult, is it?"

Just then Peter Cronk appeared and diplomatically cleared his throat, breaking the spell cast by Edith Montgomery.

"Doc, we need your assistance with the new patients. Dr. Harrison will do the sutures if you'll examine the others. That is, I mean, if everything's in hand here."

"Yes, give me a moment," being needlessly short with Peter.

Turning to Edith, I asked: "How did you manage the flooded roads?"

"The clinic's Range Rover. It's splendid, really. Moves through anything. I came across the day trippers outside Portwenn where their coach had been washed into a verge. I picked up the most seriously-injured and crowded them into the Rover. I was frantic to find Ms. Tyler, but she hadn't given me proper directions, so I went to your surgery. Ms. Newcross found us there. She's a bit spiky but quite bright, wouldn't you say."

I was about to disagree, when Morwenna returned, offering the two miniscule bottles to Edith like an acolyte to a priestess. "I think I've done them the right way, Dr. Montgomery. I read and double read the directions. The formula's approved by Baby World, so it must be good."

"Bloody Baby World," my groaned expletive was dampened by rain lashing the roof. The NHS site devoted to infant care was another of Morwenna's web-based obsessions. She pored over it daily and provided me with tips on proper care of babies, James Henry in particular. "Remember," Morwenna countered, "I was the one who told you and Miss Glasson about James Henry's ear thingy. Then you go all weird and tell me to mind my business."

Edith raised her eyebrows at me: "So the baby is James Henry and Louisa is still a Miss. Seems a bit common, Martin."

Her snide remark was lost on Morwenna who hastily interrupted: "Dr. Montgomery can I feed the boy twin. I've seen Emma do it at the surgery with James Henry. I'm not all gimbo with babies like the doc says."

"Tell you what, Morwenna – and call me Edith if you like – I'll need to examine the twins and Ms. Tyler. Let's have Mrs. Fenn feed Rory, and we'll see how Amy responds in the next half hour or so."

Edith handed the two bottles to Maureen, directed her to feed the boy for a minute, and wait a count of ten to ensure he was swallowing correctly. Morwenna was clearly dejected until Edith asked: "Ellingham have you done the Apgar and other neonatal testing?"

I shook my head no, explaining that we had been so closely monitoring their breathing that the tests seemed able to wait.

"Alright then, Morwenna. After Mrs. Fenn finishes with Rory, we'll begin testing him. Would you care to assist me with the procedure?"

Morwenna's eyes alone could have provided sufficient light for the murky village hall. Never mind the smile transfixing her face. Then reality returned, and her shoulders slumped: "Doc, do you mind if I help Dr. Montgomery – Edith. I know all about the tests. I've already found a stork mark on Rory. Dr. Apgar was an American and a surgeon. Bet you didn't know that! I promise to help you after we examine the babies. Please, doc," she whinged.

Both she and Edith looked expectantly at me, neither realizing that the Boy Scouts were of more practical use to me than my over-eager, under-trained receptionist. I left Mrs. Taylor secure in the knowledge that Edith – with or without Morwenna's help – was capable of keeping babies and mum alive. Still the doctor and her new-found assistant trailed me to the surgery area chattering like Choughs.

With my stethoscope dangling from his slim neck, Peter Cronk briefed me: "Doc, Bobby and I have the new patients registered and wrapped in blankets. Dr. Harrison managed the triage, and he's doing sutures. Two of the scouts are helping him with bandages. We can begin seeing the sprains and bruises now."

"Good Lord, Ellingham, what do you have here?" Edith exclaimed. "The Children's Crusade? Does Chris Parson's know what you're doing? Extraordinary measures and all that but still . . ."

What stopped Edith in mid-sentence was a bolt of lightning and the appearance of Alec Harrison next to me. "Eeds,"his normally-deep voice took on a smarmy note as he favoured her with a pet name: "How the bloody hell are you?"

"Don't Eeds me," she shouted over the accompanying thunder. "Little wonder I couldn't find you in Boscastle. I might have known you'd be in the thick of it. What did Ellingham do? Dragoon you from your boat."

"About the boat, Eeds, bit of a problem. She broke up on the rocks near Boscastle. We'll have to put off our holiday, mate. Fishermen rescued me, and the wind washed us up in Portwenn. Ellingham needed help through the storm, so who better than a piss poor orthopod to try his hand as a GP. If a vascular surgeon can do it, I can as well."

Morwenna was beaming as the two flirted through a bit more conversation. "Ahem," I scolded, "we need to see these patients. Plenty of time for a catch up later. Come with me Harrison."

"My master commands me Eeds. I'll get through this lot, and we'll have a bit of a snog later."

As I rolled my eyes, Morwenna tittered and Harrison slowly rubbed Edith's back: "Let's get on with it Ellingham. My woman needs me, and yours does as well. Louisa was just here looking for you and seemed quite upset. One of the old dears took her to the kitchen for a milk tea."

Raising my hand to stop the incipient protest from Peter Cronk, I assured him I'd return shortly to my duty station. I slipped and slid my way across the clammy floor to the dank kitchen where Dawn Lamb was sat opposite Louisa. Neither looked up from her tea as I entered the shadowy room. It seemed Louisa's earlier good humour had vanished along with my hope of ever being warm and dry again.

"Well, then, Mr. Lord High Muckety-Muck," a sarcastic reminder that Pauline's mother did not like me, "I'll leave Louisa to you, but make certain she has some rest. She's tired and worried senseless about her baby."

"Our baby," I muttered, as the old biddy flounced from the kitchen.

"Martin, I've been trying your Aunt Ruth for hours. I can't understand why she hasn't rung me. Doesn't she know how worried I'd be about James?"

A king's ransom I would pay had I not uttered the next words to Louisa: "Given that you handed James off to her so easily, why would Aunt Ruth think you'd be worried about him?" The thought now spoken was even more harsh than it had been playing through my mind these last few hours.

"Martin," came her strangled cry, "I did not just hand James off to your aunt! Ruth offered to take him so that we could help here in the village. I'd much rather be with James, but we're in a bit of a hash here. The village needs me, just as it needs you. But that's something you'll never understand. You hate this place. I'm sure today hasn't changed your opinion for the better."

"Louisa, that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant, Martin," Louisa seemed resigned to my thoughtless words. "I just want to know that James is fine. When Joe Penhale returns, he'll take me to High Trees. He should be checking out there anyway. No electricity and all that."

"Penhale may be gone for some time. He's fetching day trippers from an accident near the moor. Harrison is treating those already brought in."

Louisa stood and smoothed her jumper: "Well, then, I did quite well with the operation. I'll lend a hand to Alec until I leave for High Trees.

"No need. The scouts have it sorted out. Morwenna's helping Edith with the preemies and Mrs. Taylor."

"Tyler, Martin. The woman's name is Ms. Tyler. She's not married. Just like me."

"That's not my fault," I snapped.

"Actually, Martin, it is your fault," she sighed while reaching for my hand. "My fault as well. We've gotten ourselves into this mess with James Henry. Now that we've stepped in it, there's no way out. But marrying isn't going to make it better."

I dropped my head and her hand not wishing to have another row within earshot of villagers. "Look, I'm off to help Harrison. If I hear from Ruth, I'll find you immediately. Rest for a bit. Nothing more will happen tonight."

My effort at conciliation was soon ended when Morwenna ran pell-mell into the kitchen clutching the tin of formula. "Edith, said Amy can feed now. Maureen's gone off to her twins, and I'm to give the bottle. Oh, doc, Rory scored six on the Apgar. Edith will examine the girl a bit later. She said tonight's critical. If they can get through the next few hours, they should be fine. I'm so excited."

Recognition seemed to slowly seep into Louisa's brain as she shook her head and asked: "Who's Edith?"

"Edith is Dr. Montgomery," Morwenna chirped. "She's taking care of Ms. Tyler and her twins. She knows all about preemies and has a fertility clinic in Truro. But she works in London as well. Her flat there is all done up in white. Even the floors. Don't breathe a word of this, but I think Dr. Harrison is her BF. He said he wanted a snog with her later. I didn't think old people like you snogged. But I guess you do it with the doc, right?"

"That's quite enough, Morwenna." I tried to exit the kitchen before Louisa could react to Edith Montgomery's presence in the hall. "Morwenna," I quickly commanded, "prepare the formula and take it to the doctor. I'll see to the patients and make ready for those coming with Penhale. They'll need blankets and such. Ask Bert Large to make some decent tea and heat the soup. They've been out in the storm for hours and will need something warm in their guts."

My hasty escape plan ended with Louisa's words: "When did you plan to tell me about Edith? Hmm, Martin?"

"There's nothing to tell. She was referred to Mrs. Taylor by a high-risk obstetrics group in London, and she's here to treat the babies. That's all."

Before Louisa could say more, my mobile buzzed, the first time in hours. Perhaps the storm had waned enough to allow transmission. "Ellingham," I answered.

"Oh, thank God, Martin. It's Ruth. We've had no mobile service for the last while, and all the phones and electrics are wobbly."

"Ruth, how is James Henry? We've been very concerned."

"Something's wrong with him, Martin. The nurse can't bring his fever down. I thought to give him an aspirin but was concerned about Reyes Syndrome. The excessive saliva he's ingested from teething has caused diarrhea, and we're having a devil of a time keeping him hydrated. The nurse is afraid he may have bronchiolitis. He's been wheezing and won't take a bottle. Everyone at High Trees knows about geriatric care but nothing about infants. Can you get out here?"

"What is it, Martin?" Louisa was clamouring in the background. "Is James okay?"

My stricken face betrayed me, as I said to Ruth. "I'll be there as quickly as I can."

Edith Montgomery chose to enter the kitchen at that moment to say that Penhale had returned with the day trippers. And they were worse off than expected. Nighttime cold had created hypothermia in several of them, and one man was presenting with chest pains. Two diabetics had been without insulin for hours and were hyperglycemic. Harrison needed my help immediately.

"Sorry, Louisa and I have to leave. Our son is very sick." A thought occurred to me. If the roads to High Trees were still flooded, my car in its current state might not get through. "May we take your Range Rover, Edith?"

"What's wrong with James," Edith unwittingly directed her question to Louisa.

"He's quite ill," I interjected. "High fever, wheezing, possibly bronchiolitis caused by the respiratory syncytial virus. We must get to him."

"Ms. Tyler and her twins are settled in, Martin. You and Morwenna can monitor them tonight. Let me drive Ms. Glasson. The Rover takes some getting used to, especially if the roads are under water. I'll collect meds from Osborne, and we can leave immediately."

"No Edith," I was a bit too forceful in my response. "Penhale will drive us to High Trees. You stay and help Harrison."

"Ellingham, your PC is covered in muck and exhausted. I assure you that I'm more capable of helping your son than treating hypothermia. I haven't encountered it since my A&E rota at St. Mary's. Ms. Glasson, come with me." Edith took Louisa's arm and she meekly allowed it. "Let me just get to my baby, Martin," her voice somewhere between pleading and frightened. "I'll phone you when we arrive."

Edith left us to search out supplies, and I walked with Louisa to the door where she donned her anorak and silently waited. Each attempt at conversation, she rebuffed with "go to your patients, Martin." I rubbed her back as Harrison had done earlier with Edith, hoping to comfort her somewhat.

As soon as Edith joined us, Louisa stood on her toes, kissed my cheek and strangely murmured: "Thank you, Martin." Then I opened the door to a gust of wind that sucked them into the night and blew every rational thought from my mind.

The next hours were so busy and harrowing that I was able to suppress my anxiety over Louisa and Edith traveling together in aid of James Henry. During their perilous journey to High Trees, Edith told Louisa about my miserable parents and painful childhood. I had once related these horrid memories to her, but did not have the stomach to repeat them to Louisa. Why Edith told her of my sorry past, I would never know. But I'm thankful that she did. For that night set in motion a set of circumstances that would change me – and Louisa – forever.

Continued . . .


	10. Chapter 10

Rain** Check**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 10**

I'd had scarcely a moment to breathe since Louisa and Edith had ventured out into the storm towards High Trees and my ailing son. My post-operative patient needed tending, the preemies needing careful monitoring, their mum needed supervision feeding them, and Penhale's coach-load of pensioners needed everything from sutures and slings to insulin and warfarin. The scouts needed guidance, Morwenna needed a firm hand, and Alec Harrison needed refresher courses on endocrinology, cardiology and infectious diseases. And they needed it all from me.

I, on the other hand, did not need this. Not one bit.

Worry seeped through the edges of my consciousness like a persistent leak, filling me up and threatening to overflow. It informed my every act, and weighed me down like my own personal albatross. This was not a condition to which I was accustomed. Of course I had worried about James Henry, most obviously during the kidnapping, and about Louisa too, particularly when she had been ill. But never before had they both been directly in jeopardy. And, willingly or not, my hands were tied and I was being prevented – by circumstances and duties and bloody Edith Montgomery – from doing what instinct told me was needed, from treating James Henry's illness and reassuring Louisa, and keeping them both safe.

I'd checked my mobile incessantly. Suture a cut, check the mobile. Change a dressing, check the mobile. Monitor the incubator, check the mobile. No missed calls. No voicemail. No texts. No service. Nothing to combat the rising tide of panic roiling in my gut and threatening to spill over my carefully constructed wall of professionalism and sweep me away into a maelstrom. In very short order my inability to have what I needed – news of Louisa's and James Henry's safety – was going to drown me and eliminate any chance I would have to render aid to another soul.

Grasping at straws, I decided that perhaps there was a better chance of catching a signal on my mobile if I ventured outside and climbed to higher ground. From experience, I knew there was usually clearer reception on the top of Roscarrock Hill. Or maybe the landline in the surgery would be functioning. I simply had to find a way to reach Louisa or go mad trying.

Feeling slightly better for having formulated a plan, I found my suitcase under the makeshift reception desk. Rummaging through it, I located an extra pair of socks, my boots, and a jumper that I pulled on over my rumpled shirt, saving the dry one for my return. I wished I had thought to pack a balaclava.

"What's up, Mate?" asked Harrison, coming up behind me as I wrapped myself in my still-damp mackintosh and stowed my mobile in my pocket. "Making a run for it?"

My mind was reeling. "No. Going for more supplies," I improvised. "Can you manage things here for a bit?"

He slowly scrutinized my face before answering. "Yeah, sure, mate. Things seem under control. I'll stick with Jacob and the troops can look me up if they need me." He gave me a hearty backslap and I cringed.

"Right. Good." I nodded, and then with a brief glance at my little sick bay, I headed for the door. I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I walked away.

When I reached the exit, I found Al Large dozing in a chair surrounded by dripping oilskins. He started at the sound of my footsteps, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

"Doc! Wotcher . . . You're not going out there, are you?" Even in his somnolent state he sounded incredulous.

"Al." So much for getting out undetected. "I'm just headed up to the surgery. Supplies." I felt my face flush; deceit did not come naturally to me.

"It's mental out there, Doc! You sure?"

"Yes, yes. I'll be fine. It isn't far." I sounded better than I felt.

"Well at least take some gear. You need more than that jacket to protect you." He scrambled out of his char and started handing me his rain gear from the pile on the floor. "Put the trousers on first and then the coat," he directed. "And take Dad's wellies – he won't need them."

I struggled into the rain suit, realizing he was right; my gabardine topcoat wasn't going to be any kind of protection.

"Put the hood up and tie it too – no way you'll keep a hat on in this gale," said Al, pulling the drawstring tight around my face.

"Right. I can tie it." My nose wrinkled at the smell of the wet slicker enveloping me.

"And the boots. Dad's should be a good fit."

I was glad of the extra pair of socks as I stepped into Bert Large's very large boots. Hopefully two layers of wool would be sufficient to keep any microbes that might be lurking there from infecting my feet.

"Good luck Doc. Lean into the wind; don't let it push you around."

I nodded as he swung the door open and I was sucked out into the night.

The wind was howling and literally pushing me up the hill. Sideways. It drove the icy rain like sharp splinters into my face and down inside Bert's boots. I was grateful for my borrowed oilskins. In between the thunderclaps I could hear the roar of the sea crashing into the Platt. The only illumination came from the frequent lightening strikes. And in the pelting rain, there was very little to see even then.

Going on instinct and the basic direction of "up", I fought my way past the surgery to the flat grassy area at the top of the hill. I was fueled by adrenaline and fear and worry and cold and the smallest glimmer of hope that I would be able to ring Louisa if I could only get to the top. I fumbled with the unfamiliar clothing to get to my mobile and convinced my frozen fingers to manipulate the device. Twice, three times, four times I dialed Louisa only to have the screen inform me that the call had failed. In desperation, I dialed Ruth, only to have the same miserable message repeated. I wasn't able to reach High Trees or Chris Parsons either.

The pent up exhaustion collided with the new despair and the lurking worry creating crashing waves of emotion inside me to match the fury of the storm that buffeted me outside. I felt deflated - an empty vessel, adrift and at the mercy of the weather. King Lear and Captain Ahab and that poor sod from Titanic rolled into one.

Going back towards the surgery was treacherous. Gravity pulled down even as the wind blowing off the sea threatened to topple me over backwards. I remembered Al's advice and bent into the wind, pushing with my shoulders as I would against a physical obstacle. Agonizingly slowly, I battled my way back to the surgery until I found myself at last facing my own front door.

X

Inside, the house was cold and dark. Any vestiges of heat had long since dissipated. I heard the disheartening sound of water dripping in the kitchen, a sign that the window leak I'd hired Al to repair last summer was back in full force. I dropped like an anvil into the chair in my consulting room and reached for the phone.

The line was dead.

It was the final straw. This camel's back was broken and I had no idea what to do next. I had no way to get to Louisa or James Henry and no way to contact them. You couldn't get a smoke signal through in this weather. I was in the wholly unfamiliar position of being emotionally overwhelmed. Not even in the depths of my despair when the haemophobia began or when Louisa left for London had I felt as helpless as I did now.

Using my mobile's screen for light, I dragged myself out of my chair and through to the living room. Though the kettle was electric of course, if the gas were still on, I might be able to light the cooker with a match and make some tea. The idea of a hot cup of my own tea brewed to my own liking in my own kitchen spurred me on. Or at least it did until I tripped over an unfamiliar obstacle and fell flat on my backside.

I was beyond surprised when said obstacle let out a yelp and then put its paws on my shoulders and began to lick my face. What the bloody buggering hell was Aunt Joan's orphaned dog doing in my kitchen?

"You. Out. Out with you. OUT!" I bellowed, shoo-ing him toward the kitchen door.

The beast began to whine and skitter away until I could only see his eyes, glinting in the darkness.

"Fine." I gave up. "Have it your way. But you're staying in here." And with that I slammed the door and stormed upstairs. At least I could find some more warm dry clothes and clean up a bit.

There was not hot water of course. But I did manage to towel off and brush my teeth, which was an improvement. Hand sanitizer served to remove whatever canine-born filth I had encountered. Feeling cleaner, I layered on my warmest clothes and sank onto the bed with the duvet wrapped around me. The duvet had Louisa's scent, and being wrapped in it reminded me of swaddling James Henry. My heart cracked just a bit more at that, and I knew that despite the fact that it was four am and I had been on my feet for hours and hours, I wouldn't get any sleep here. Not without my family.

I resigned myself to returning to the Village Hall. That is where Louisa would expect me to be. With my patients. She and Edith hadn't batted an eye before assuming I would be better off staying with my patients that going to the aid of my son.

They were wrong. So wrong. But even I realized that if past behavior was any indication of my proclivities, they couldn't be blamed for jumping to that conclusion. Work had been my life. My first duty had been with my patients. But not any longer. Not now. I needed my family. More than anything else. And I needed Louisa to understand how important it was to me that this be formal and official and REAL. No takebacks. No do-overs. We'd been through that morass and come through the other side and I had never been surer that I could not let her slip through my fingers again.

I headed for the supplies cupboard. Harrison and Al Large would both be expecting me to bring back at least something useful. When I first saw the mess the cupboard was in, I swore under my breath. Morwenna had been in here of course. And Louisa. And Harrison, probably. And Penhale and Edith and even some of the scouts, as I thought about it – sent running for supplies all through the evening. I supposed that I shouldn't have expected everything to be all ship shape and Bristol fashion. But why were there gauze bandage rolls open on the floor? And nitrile gloves scattered everywhere? Who would leave a box of tongue depressors upended on the bottom shelf?

Then I heard scratching from the kitchen. And I knew who my culprit was.

"That is IT, you bloody bastard! I have had enough." I barreled through the kitchen door, ready to tear the beast apart and throw the pieces in the sea. "You flea-bitten, mangy, mongrel whoreson of a mutt! ENOUGH. I am THROUGH with YOU!"

I picked up the broom and ran at him, just as he came towards me. He barked wildly and raced between my legs, escaping back into the surgery. Brandishing the broom, I gave chase, back through the door, into the consulting room, around reception, down the corridor to the supply cupboard.

"I've got you now. There is no escape." I blocked the corridor and lunged towards him in the dark, expecting to grab him and make for the door. Out he would go, storm or no storm. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

"Oof." I fell flat on my face my arms closing around nothingness where the dog had clearly been moments before. Blast. Where could the rotten scoundrel be now?

I pushed myself up and turned around wildly. I heard the broom handle hit the wall as I stepped on it and then felt rather than heard the dog gallop out from under the supply shelves towards Morwenna's desk.

A loud clap of thunder was followed immediately by a blinding flash of lightening, giving me a crystal clear view of my enemy. And when I saw the dog running off with the last surgical pack in his mouth, I knew that my night had gone completely to hell.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter** 11**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

I armed myself with a torch from the sink cabinet and stalked back towards reception. The dog was now whimpering and growling in almost human voice. He was under the desk where Morwenna would sit. Perfect. He'd trapped himself and good! I stumbled as I went towards the animal and wondered if I caught him, where would I put him? The misstep made me pause. It served the filthy creature right to be thrown out in the storm! Mucking up my surgery, tearing things to bits… "Get a grip Ellingham," I told myself. "Clean it up, that's it. Just a dog – Auntie Joan's dog." The pantry then; not outside.

Auntie Joan had been dead these past months and but for the graveside service and a brief visit that Louisa made me endure I'd not gone back to her grave. She was laid to rest next to Uncle Phil who'd died of lymphatic cancer nearly twenty years back. Her gravestone read:

_Joan Ellingham Norton _

_21 May 1942 – 25 June 2012_

_Wife and Aunt – Loving and Constant_

I had wanted to add another line which would read, "_She was my mother when I had none_," but that would have revealed too much of my history, and I was both too vain and too shy to reveal it.

Just then the storm tried to crush the house in flashes of lightning, peals of terrible thunder, and a downpour that would scare Noah. I could hear slate being blown off the roof and crashing to the ground bursting like bombs while the whole house shook, though it was rooted to the stone of the cliff.

Louisa and Edith were out there in the tumult and I blew out a shaky breath wondering if they were safe, was James alright, and how was Aunt Ruth and the residents of High Trees faring? What if I lost them, any of them? All these thoughts flooded my head and in my puny weakness they carried on leading to other things.

I was near to breaking; near to totally losing it, and the thought of Joan's polished granite headstone next to the aged one of my uncle, combined with fear for James' health, and the safety of dear Louisa tore me to pieces. It was all too much, so I beat my fist upon my thigh and tried to stifle a groan that rose unbidden from the depths of despair and hopelessness.

The groan came out anyway, interspersed with words torn from my soul, "Louisa! Arggh, James Henry, aarg, if anything… anything would… happen! Our little boy, oh my God!" I fell to one knee as my legs failed. Nearly prostrate I groveled on the floor as more anguished cries came through my gritted teeth.

Once again I was in the pitch black closet under the stairs, aged six or seven, kicking at the latched door, while my dad yelled at me to be quiet through the door or I'd get another crack with his belt. I might pretend that I was brave Hillary scaling Everest, or Cousteau deep in a cave with five minutes air in my scuba tanks, or Dan Dare on a mission deep in outer space, but the old terrors washed over me like a giant wave. While the storm continued its assault, all the terrors and worries I'd suffered over the last eighteen hours hit me, while all those secrets I'd tried to bury deep crawled up and out.

I know that I screamed and almost heard an echo of my cries near at hand; some odd counterpoint to my mental torture.

The words of the therapist Milligan somehow flashed into my head. _"You are in control. The operating theater is ready. The patient is prepped and ready for your care. The house officers and students in training and the surgical nurses are ready. You are in control. Pick up the scalpel and approach the patient."_

I took a deep cleansing breath and blew it out and once again. Control was the key, not fear. Fear I could only manage by _control_, so I pushed my terrors back into the hidey-hole where they belonged.

Control.

I stood upright, tugged at my clothes and straightened them. "Right," I said and my intellect reasserted complete control over my weak body. I wiped my teary face and plunged my hands down towards the dark recess under Morwenna's station to corral the small dog. I heard a skitter of paws and toenails in a brief pause of the howling wind and felt the dog run between my legs and away from me. "Bollocks!"

I turned to follow the sound and heard a trembling and frightened voice. "Doc? That you?"

"What?" I switched on the torch and in the pale beam saw Stewart James cowering under the desk nearly in a foetal position. His face was pale and drawn, teeth bared, eyes wide with terror and I must look the same to him. He was just as drenched as I had been but was also muddy up to his knees and he smelled of smoke and burnt wood. "Stewart, what in the hell are you doing here?"

The Forest Ranger's strong arms grabbed me and slammed me down, knocking the torch away. "Doc! I thought it was one of _them_!" He crushed my head under his arm. "Shh! Not a sound!"

All I could hear was the thumping of his frantic heart and smelled the sour sweat of the man. "Stewart, let me go!"

"No! We're safe down here! In the bunker! They're bombarding again!"

Another rumble of deep thunder shook the house, if not the whole village, while Stewart quivered and moaned like a woman deep in childbirth. Lightning crackled and the storm slowed and stopped. Only the wind blew and it was clear the velocity had dropped and even the rain had abated. When I could get my face away from his chest and he seemed to be only groaning and not screaming, I asked him, "Stewart, what's happened?"

Like a switch had been thrown his voice changed to a calm tone. "Well, Doc, I been seeing the therapist, and taking the meds, and things were going alright, you know. Have my bad days and my good. But this, uhm, thing, happened."

"What thing?" I thought best to humor the man expecting that he'd be raving about red and gray squirrels.

"I been seeing things, odd things, in my vision. Crawling things."

Visual and auditory hallucinations were part and parcel of Stewart's mental state. "I thought you were better," I sighed.

"Oh, yeah," he tried to sit and I reached out for the torch. "Thought I was. No, keep it off! They got spotters out! And their artillery… snipers as well!" he whinged deep in his throat. "Shh! Quiet!"

"Right. Stewart, tell me about the things in your vision." I resolved to force Stewart to stay logical. The thing about Stewart was that the first time I'd met him he seemed to be the most thoughtful and intelligent person I had met in Portwenn, bar one, but then he'd mentioned his squirrel.

"Just keep the torch off," he said with alarm then calmed himself. "Sometimes I get these little spots, well, one spot really, always in my left eye. It starts out small, and grows and grows, and even when I close my eyes I can see it."

"Have you been drinking or abusing the medications?"

"No, none of that. Strong coffee only. Anthony doesn't like the hard stuff."

I sighed. "I thought Anthony wasn't around anymore." Anthony was his imaginary six-foot squirrel friend and he'd harbored this delusion since returning from war service in Bosnia. The late great Dr. Sim had been treating him with placebos and only through Stewart's considerable intelligence had the man managed to hold on to near-sanity as long as he had. Yet _Anthony_ sometimes provided good counsel to the war veteran.

Stewart had confessed he'd _seen things_ and _done things_ over in that hell hole of ethnic cleansing and the aftermath. Stewart James had a classic case of delusional post-traumatic stress disorder but as a Forest Ranger, working and living far from towns and people, only then could he find peace. But from time to time his terrors rose and swatted him down to the trembling wreck of the moment.

"Oh," he sighed, "we have our differences. He got on my about the polenta once, said it was dry, and he didn't like the chocolates I bought him…" he coughed. "And the garden magazine sent him right off - ripped it to shreds." Thunder rumbled far away and he quivered at the sound and made mewling noises. "Stop… stop… it! Make it stop, Doc!"

"Stewart; the storm, it's _only_ a storm." I touched his hand and he grabbed it like a drowning man.

"I know," he answered through gritted teeth. "I _know_… but when the cabin took a direct hit - it's all ashes from the fire - I had to get out. Huge lightning strike - wish I'd had a camera! Run and hide, Doc! Run and hide! Like cockroaches in the light when you go to get a drink of water! Flip on the light and there they are running like mad and you have to squish 'em and squish 'em!" He stopped and coughed then was calmer. "Sorry. Just like that. So my cabin's destroyed and I had nowhere to go. Don't know how bloody far I drove and drove. On and on - hours it musta been."

"Why'd you come here?" I managed to scoot a foot away from him and switched on the torch shining it through my fingers blocking most of the light.

He nodded at me in the dim light. "Good field technique, Doc. We could have used you _over there_."

"Right. Now, Stewart. Why did you come here?"

He sighed and smiled. "It's obvious! You should know!"

"I don't."

"Ha! Good one Doc! Well - it was Anthony! Anthony said I should come see you. You'd know what to do - about the eye thing."

"Oh."

"The back door was open, so I came in. You know the mains are down and there's no heat in your house?" Now he was almost calm. "I bet you and your lady will get mighty cold. You'll have to bundle up."

"Ahm, you mean Louisa Glasson."

"Oh, yeah. Louisa. Short and heavy, blonde hair, one gimpy leg?"

"No. Louisa is tall and dark haired with green eyes."

Stewart laughed and punched me in the ribs. "Ha! Ha! Got you! I know who Louisa is! She's the Portwenn School Head Teacher!"

"Right." I'd been played a joke on by a mad Forest Ranger. "Now Stewart, about the eye thing?"

"Okay, so this spot grows and grows, wiggling around the edges, and if I think about it the edge of this thing is all slotted like the top of an old castle. And here's the best part! The best part, and I know you'll find this absolutely fascinating, it still blows me away, is that as this wiggly thing grows and grows I can't see through it!"

This was starting to ring a bell. "You said even when you close your eyes you see it?"

"Oh yeah. Really weird and in the middle of the wiggling thingy I can't see anything. I mean I know there's stuff there, cuz I can feel them with my hands, but it's almost like I'm blind – like the vision part of brain is off line! This huge blind spot that grows and grows!" He laughed. "I bet there's a lot of people would pay good money to buy drugs to see odd stuff like that! To see things and _not_ see them! Wow! Science fiction!" He laughed. "Maybe the Royal Air Force will pay for it. They could spray some chemical on their way to the target and it would make everybody who looked up blind to the bombers! Fab! Right? What do you think? No, what a minute, that won't work, cause if they sprayed from planes to hide the planes then what could they use to hide the planes spraying? I know!" He snapped his fingers. "Trained choughs!"

The manic flight of ideas was also part of Stewart's medical condition. "Have you hit your head? Are you injured in any way? Fallen or having fits?" I was still trying to fully communicate with the rational being locked in his head.

"No," he shook his head. "But then after this spot in my vision starts on the left side it goes to the right as well and when it's over," he snapped his fingers, "poof! Gone in a flash! Then I get a mild headache and if the light is really bright just then like at sunset or sunrise when this thing goes away I get a huge feeling of well-being afterward." He rolled to his side and propped his head on his elbow. "Got any ideas?"

I smiled at him since I did. "Stewart I believe that you have an oscillating scotoma – a visual migraine that originates in the vision centers of your brain. The fortification spectrum, the crenellated borders or jagged edges, are a classic pattern for some patients."

"Oh. So I'm _not_ crazy?" he asked warily.

I shook my head. "Not… not more than… your usual, uhm, issues. These visions can be induced by stress."

He rolled onto this back and laughed with joy. "Thank God! I thought I might have a brain tumour or maybe the terrors were screwing with the old noggin!" He laughed. "Well, that's a relief!" He punched me on the shoulder and it hurt.

"Ow!"

"Sorry Doc! I'm just so happy! You have _no_ idea." He hugged me and beat on my back. "Thanks mate! Whew! A migraine. It almost sounds - _normal_!" he smiled at me. "Anthony was right! My squirrel was right!"

"Stewart can we get out from under this desk?"

"Sure, sure," he relaxed.

"You're under stress. I mean _new_ stress." I crawled out and helped him up.

He patted the wood desk. "Now that's a desk. Great desk - wonderful desk! Makes a good emergency shelter." He glanced away from me. "Stress, yes. You see," he looked around deviously, "Anthony says he has to leave. Going on holiday. Doesn't know when he might be back."

"And this panic tonight?"

"Oh," he sighed, "when the lightning hit my cabin - whoosh - up like a Roman candle! I was back in, well, you _know_. Bombs going off." He wiped his face. "Bullets flying."

I shone my torch on him but saw he was actually happy and not morose and frightened. "You'll need an exam to ensure my diagnosis is correct."

He smiled. "Anthony knew you'd sort me. You two make a good team."

God! Now my consulting assistant was a six-foot imaginary squirrel. "Glad to be of help."

"Oh and Doc? Your dog's made an awful mess of your surgery. I don't think he's very well behaved."

I flashed the torch to the door and Buddy sat there with the surgical dressing in his mouth wagging his tail. "Bad dog, bag DOG!"

Before I could take a step Stewart walked over and picked the dog up, cradling it in his arms. "Oh, he just needs a bit of companionship is all. Right? You know, Doc, keeping an animal, well, if you did, might just keep you this side of bodmin."

I turned in surprise. "I'm not, uhm, bodmin." Bodmin was the local term for being mad.

Stewart smiled as he ruffled Buddy's ears. "You might not think so, but I heard you screaming back there. I thought it was me, well, it _was_ me, _mostly_, but you was screamin' as well. Right Buddy?"

I sighed deeply. "Stewart we all have, uhm, _things_, which upset us."

He nodded. "Oh, right, I know that. So what about you Doc; got anything driving you bodmin?"

"Ahm, yeah. My Aunt has my son." I didn't have to mention being at logger heads with Louisa.

"I thought your aunt was _dead_. Oh, no, what a minute, yeah she died, I mean _Joan_, not the other one. What's her name?"

"Ruth."

"Sure. Aunt Ruth, of course!" he said. "She's as doctor too, I hear."

"Yes and Aunt Ruth took my son, James Henry, to the safety of High Trees care home. We got a short mobile call from her that our boy is, uhm, well, quite ill." Just saying it made _me_ feel ill. "Fever."

Stewart nodded. "You and Louisa," he held up crossed fingers, "you're like that. _Close_."

"Yeah," I said not about to get into personal matters with him.

"And you got a baby?"

"He's barely nine months old."

He slapped my arm again. "Way to go Doc! I never would have figured you could get that close…" he stopped, "well, I mean… you seem… that is you can be… off putting." He smiled. "But what do I know?" Then he laughed. "Well why in God's name are you _here_? I thought you'd be out there like a rocket! A fever; that can be serious!"

"Louisa and another doctor, an Edith Montgomery, drove out to High Trees. I was… I was trying to find mobile reception from the surgery since it's been hours and I haven't heard a thing I was left to tend to patients."

"Ah, yes, that figures. Well, Buddy what should we do?" He held his ear to the dog. "He says you should go as well."

"Stewart, Buddy cannot speak."

The dog woofed as if to make me a liar.

"And how do you know his name?" I asked.

He smiled. "I used to get veg from your Aunt Joan. This little guy was usually underfoot. So you sorta adopted him, have you?"

"No."

Buddy stuck his tongue out at me and I glared back.

Stewart laughed and hugged the dog. "But dogs do talk. Well not in people speak, can you boy? I may be disturbed Doc, but I'm not stupid."

"Right. So, I came here to the house and up to the headland, but found no mobile reception."

Buddy woofed and Stewart acted as if he was listening.

"Stewart," I said. "Don't tell me you can speak dog too," I muttered for he clearly believed he knew how to speak imaginary squirrel.

"Shush Doc! I can't hear what he's saying. Righttt. Okay, yeah. Good idea. Smart dog!" He put the dog down on the floor and dusted his hands. "Buddy agrees with Anthony."

"Not Anthony again." I walked past him into the surgery to see what supplies I might salvage. Into a plastic sack I put gauze, tape, a small first aid kit that had been missed in the turmoil, and sticking plasters. My spare penlight and the large torch went in with the rest, along with a box of syringes, some morphine, insulin, saline, Paracetamols and antibiotic ointment. There were a few unchewed tongue depressors and a Velcro sling hidden away so I took those along with forceps and a scalpel. I found bottled water in the kitchen and two dried out apples, plus a box of chocolate digestives on the shelf but with that the cupboard was bare.

"Where we going Doc?" Stewart asked, lounging in the doorway. "And where is everybody? The village is empty. I thought it had been evacuated - like I was left behind - the rear guard, you know?"

"Village Hall. How did you get here?"

"Jeep. Diesel does plenty well even in bad weather with all-wheel drive and I've got a jerry can of spare fuel." He rubbed his hands in glee. "Ready for action! So… you up for it?"

I sighed. "Stewart can I use your vehicle? I feel I have to do something. Shanks mare won't get me there."

Stewart smiled. "You and me? Like when Mylow and Al was lost in the woods? Yeah. That was fun, except for the man traps, and the poachers..." he scratched at his neck, "poison ivy, stinging nettles." He shrugged. "And snakes! Fun! Most fun I had in, oh, I dunnoh." He stopped. "You got a new constable. Mylow left."

"Joe Penhale."

"Yeah. He any good?"

I sighed and hefted the plastic sack for it was pitiful kit but there was nothing else and I shrugged.

Stewart gave me a determined look. "There's just one more thing."

"What?" I was prepared for almost anything with Stewart James but not what he said next.

"Can I have a few of those digestives? Been a while since I tasted any and they're my favorite."

"Stewart," I replied, "If you get me to High Trees, you can have as many as you like. I'll buy you a year's supply."

His face lit up. "A year's supply? Wow. Well, then we'd better get cracking!" He marched to the door and threw it open. "Stopped raining. Good, that's good. I always like the feel of the air after a rainstorm. I feel I can really relax."

Somehow when Stewart told me things like that I believed him. "Where's your jeep?" I scanned the sky and things did seem to be brightening somewhat.

"Top of the hill. You musta missed it. I had to come cross country to get here. Most of the roads are flooded and those not washed out are piled with debris. But we'll get you out there - a real adventure."

I clapped the madman on the shoulder. "Lead on Macduff."

He chuckled. "Ah, Shakespeare. You know I read Macbeth to Anthony and he said it was too sad. He didn't like all that blood."

"I don't like blood that much either," I answered as we climbed the hill.

**Author's notes:**

**This author suffers from oscillating scotomas from time to time. They were first medically described by Dr. Hubert Airy (1838 – 1903) about the symptoms of his father Sir George Airy, a Royal astronomer, who was a migraine suffer and first accurately reported the symptoms in 1865.**

**I selected Joan Norton's birthday to be that of my late father.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Rain Check**

**by Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Chapter 12**

Stewart sprinted ahead and I followed, the sack of medical supplies banging uncomfortably against the side of my leg. The bloody dog kept running to and fro between the ranger and me, barking excitedly as if herding a flock of recalcitrant sheep. I wanted to kick the beast out of the way but was too tired, suffering from sleep deprivation and lack of proper food. The last thing I remembered eating was a pasty snatched from the village hall kitchen the night before. Since then, I'd performed my first vascular surgery in years and Louisa had left to care for our son at High Trees. It now seemed a life time ago.

The rain was holding but the wind blew stronger than ever. A gust pushed me sideways as the dog made another foray under my feet and I stumbled, falling hard on the rain soaked ground. The sack slipped from my hand and vials of antibiotics and insulin, packets of medication and hydration salts tumbled into the muck. "Bugger!" I muttered, and hoisted myself up, gingerly moving the shoulder that had taken the brunt of the fall. That'll hurt like the dickens tomorrow, I thought, and bent over to see if anything was salvageable. The packets were soaked through and some of the vials had shattered on impact. I'd need to find more supplies on the way to High Trees – if James Henry continued with a fever he would at the very least need Calpol and hydration salts, at the worse antibiotics and intravenous fluids. This meant a stop at the village hall to restock, all because of the blasted dog.

The flea bag was staring at me tauntingly, a tongue depressor dangling jauntily from the side of his mouth. "Look at the mess you've made," I yelled, making a grab at the vermin but it skittered from my grasp, running up the hill in the general vicinity of where Stewart said to have left the jeep. I sneered and trudged uphill after it, dragging the now gritty sack in one hand.

It was slow going but I finally crested the hill and was relieved to see Stewart. He could easily have made a run for it, unstable as he was with PTSD fueled by the storm and delusions of talking squirrels and canines. The man was stark raving mad, but he was my one and only chance at getting to High Trees and my family.

The wind was worse on the headland, lashing off the harbor in gusts that made standing upright almost impossible. Stewart was gesticulating wildly for me to hurry, and I put my head down, doing my best not get blown off the cliff. It wouldn't do to end up splattered on the Platt like some errant road kill, especially after I've finally sorted out my priorities. It had taken a descent into my own personal pit of hell to finally realise Louisa and James Henry were more important than work or my own needs or wants. And more than anything, I wanted to be a good father to James Henry and husband to Louisa. If only she'd agree to marry me, I thought sadly.

Reaching the jeep, I yanked door the open, grateful to step out of wind. Stewart jumped in and said excitedly, "This is great Doc, just you and me on a mission. I'll get you to the missus and your little tike in no time."

"We're not married," I said, fumbling for the seat belt but only found a short strip of frayed nylon where the safety harness should have been.

"Anthony doesn't like restraints. Had to cut out the seat belts or he wouldn't ride with me. Don't worry, you won't need it." He flashed me a maniacal grin and I grabbed the roll bar with my good arm when the jeep pitched forward with a crash of gears that rattled my bones. I wasn't a religious man, but sent up a prayer hoping Stewart wouldn't kill us both with his questionable driving skills. But he finally got the gears into drive and we barreled past the surgery and down Roscarrock Hill, barely missing the uprooted hedgerow and rubbish bins blown in the road by the storm.

"I have to stop at the village hall to pick up supplies," I yelled over the whine of the engine.

"No problem, Doc. I'll wait for you outside. Too many people for my liking." I couldn't argue with that, not being a fan of crowds myself.

We were half way down the hill when Stewart glanced in the rearview mirror and slammed on the brakes. I pitched forward, sending shooting pains through my injured shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing?" I exclaimed, rubbing the sore spot with one hand.

"No need to use that language Doc," admonished Stewart as he jumped out into the driving wind. I muttered another expletive at the delay, and craned my neck to see what the deranged ranger was up to. Giving up, I whipped out my mobile to see if there was a signal. Still nothing. I was irritably shoving the phone back into the pocket of Bert's mac when Stewart returned holding the mangy dog.

"Couldn't leave him behind. Anthony wouldn't have liked that one bit." The critter wiggled out the ranger's arms and jumped on my lap, muddying my only patch of dry trouser. I shoved him off with a sneer but didn't say anything - best stay on the giant squirrel's good side. Auntie Joan would have had a good laugh at seeing me riding in a decrepit government issued jeep, sandwiched between her smelly terrier and a madman. Good lord, what had I got myself into?

Stewart managed to put the jeep in drive without hopelessly crashing the gears and we coasted down the hill. By then dawn was clawing through the angry clouds swirling over the village, and a misty fog had replaced the driving rain. It was the start to another day but I barely noticed; my thoughts were consumed with finding the quickest way to collect what I needed from the makeshift hospital and make a quick getaway to High Trees.

But the devastation that met us when we rounded the corner to the Platt startled me out of my ruminations. The winds and tides had taken their toll, and I was dumbfounded at the pile of jagged timber sprinkled with shattered glass that had once been the village pub. A lone fruit machine poked through the rubble, listing to one side and draped in strings of spindly seaweed. Most of the shops and dwellings were without windows, and shingles littered the cobblestone streets. But most impressive was the village's fishing fleet, scattered over the beach, battered hulls ripped open to the elements and ropes and netting strewn haphazardly over the sands. The only sign of life were the seagulls, diving in and out of the waves crashing over the twin break walls guarding the entrance to the harbor. My companion visibly tensed, and I suddenly recalled his house had been destroyed by a lightning strike a few hours before.

"Ah, Stewart, about your house," I started. He silenced me with the wave of one hand before weaving around the debris and accelerating past the school towards the village hall. "No worries, Doc. Anthony and me, we'll rebuild."

I nodded, making a mental note to speak with the council about Stewart's predicament. There would be emergency funding available to those affected by the storm, and I'd make sure the reclusive park ranger was well looked after. But for now I had my own pressing problems to deal with. We rolled to a stop in front of the hall and it was time to put my plan into action - grab what I need and run out again to be on my way to High Trees before anyone waylaid me for medical advice or worse, another surgical procedure. I jumped out and yelled above the keening gale, "I'll be right back!"

"Ok Doc, I'll be waiting," he answered.

I ducked against the wind, pushing open the worn paneled door before stepping into the hall. A fug of unwashed bodies, wet wool and over brewed tea stopped me in my tracks, and I tried not to gag as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. It appeared the electricity was still out and lanterns glowed dimly in the half light. I spotted Harrison across the room tending to an elderly man sitting in the designated triage area. The boy scouts were nowhere to be seen, but Peter was sitting next to the fisherman with the fractured leg, his gaze never leaving the rise and fall of the man's chest. I felt a stirring of pride for the boy, who I hoped would consider a career in medicine. He'd make a damn good doctor.

I stepped aside to let a group of anxious looking fishermen exit the hall, murmuring about broken masts and smashed rudders. They'd find nothing good down at the beach but I kept my own counsel, instead hurrying across the room towards Harrison.

"It's gout, Mr. Sweet. There's nothing to do but wait until the pharmacist gets in a supply of Indocin. Until then, keep it elevated. For Christ sake, where have you been?" The last was directed at me, and I pulled him aside before he started ranting in front of the patient.

I ignored his question and said, "I need supplies, IV solution, analgesics, hydration salts and antibiotics. My son is sick with a fever out at the nursing home and I need to get to him." And Louisa, I added silently.

He frowned. "Isn't Edith with him? She's more than qualified to care for a sick infant. And she'll pull supplies out of her arse if she needs to."

"That's not the point," I answered tersely, refusing to be side railed once again. "He's my child. I need to be with him." Harrison ran a hand through the week old whiskers sprouting on his chin and sighed.

"Okay but send me Eeds. I need her help with the preemies." He glanced at the area where the newly delivered mother and the new born twins were secluded. "We're giving them each a turn in the incubator, but I don't like the looks of the girl. By the way, I was able to raise the Royal Cornwall on the police radio and they'll try to send a helicopter as soon as possible."

"Bad idea," I said, rummaging for supplies in the plastic bins next to the triage area. "The helo won't be able to land in the cross winds and the beach is littered with debris. Better off getting a military all-terrain vehicle sent from St. Mawgan. Get me the radio." I didn't have time to get involved, but on the other hand felt a responsibility to the patients who continued to be technically under my care.

One of the boy scouts materialized and I snapped for him to fetch Penhale. The police constable raced out of the kitchen, a half-eaten pasty in his hand.

"What is it Doc? Is there an emergency?"

We were standing smack in the middle of a first rate disaster, but I didn't waste my breath stating the obvious to the blumbering fool.

"Give me your radio," I demanded.

"Come now, Doc. You know it's only to be used by authorized personnel."

"Give it to me now you simpering moron or I'll wring your neck." My outburst had the desired effect and Penhale handed over the radio without further ado.

I put the call through, and was told a military transport was already on its way. Before signing off I asked if the dispatcher could get a message to High Trees, but was told the lines and cell towers continued to be nonoperational.

The cold pit of worry that had settled in my stomach blossomed into full blown terror. What if things had gone from bad to worse and it was too late for James Henry? I stood rooted to the spot, knowing full well I wasn't being rational. But I couldn't help it, and Harrison asked as I was trying to calm my racing thoughts, "You okay mate? Can't say you look too good. But you were right about the transport. Just hope they get here soon. I'm worried about infection setting in Jacob's leg. We might run out of antibiotics and pain medication before the day is out."

"I'll send Edith here the minute I get to High Trees, but can't say when I'll be back. As for the supplies, you'll have to make do. I'll take two vials of pediatric amoxicillin and leave you the rest."

"Guess I have no choice," answered Harrison wearily

The injured fisherman started to moan, and Harrison scurried off with more pain medication as I shoved the radio in Penhale's hand and went in search of my medical bag. It was where Morwenna had left it, tucked under the trestle table that had served to operate on the injured fisherman. The all too familiar stench of blood filled my nose and I slowly breathed through my mouth until the nausea subsided and the world righted itself. I was overwrought and tired, a sure fire recipe for the haemophobia to rear its ugly head, but I couldn't afford to let it slow me down. "Must stay focused," I muttered, hurrying back to the triage area, case in hand. The faster I got the supplies sorted, the sooner I'd be on my way.

It only took a matter of minutes to stash what was needed in my case, and I was just about ready to leave when I heard someone moving behind me. "Doc? Is that you?" whispered a man's voice.

I swung around ready to tell whoever it was to go away, but the words never made it out of my mouth. There stood the surfer who had affair with colonel's wife a few years back, the man who had been skulking over the babies the night before. At the time I hadn't given him a second thought, preoccupied as I was with the preemie that had gone into respiratory distress.

"It's me, Ross," he said, glancing nervously behind him.

"What are you doing here? I thought you moved to Wales."

"I did, but it hadn't been my choice to leave, was it?" he answered.

Not only did the tosser have an affair with the colonel's wife, he had also availed himself of more than a few of the fishermen's wives. It all came to a head shortly after the idiot broke my nose in a pub brawl, and he had to skip town when the cuckolded husbands threatened to turn him into fish bait.

"Right. I have to be somewhere," I said, grabbing my medical case before starting towards the hall's exit.

"Wait! You have to help me," said Ross, trailing behind me.

"No I don't," I answered. We had both reached the door and Ross said urgently, "They're mine. Well I think they're mine."

"What on earth are you talking about?" I snapped.

"The babies. I think I'm the father."

This was ridiculous; I had no interest or time for the Claire Tyler reality show. "Congratulations. Now get out of my way."

"You don't understand. Claire said she never wanted to see me again, not after she found out about the nurse. But she has it all wrong. I never touched another woman while we were together, but she didn't believe me." I wonder why, I thought silently as he continued to natter on. "Then she stopped coming to Cardiff and wouldn't take my calls. I heard she was expecting, and I've been looking for her since. One of my surfer mates said she was coming to Portwenn to meet with Carrie Wilson. So here I am."

"What's in Cardiff?" I asked against my better judgment.

"My uncle runs the food service for the Dr. Who Experience. That's where we met, Claire and me. She'd bring in the Americans from London and I'd serve them fish fingers and custard. They're mad for the Doctor in America, if you didn't know."

I didn't know and couldn't care less. To my dismay Louisa was an avid fan of the show, and I would take myself upstairs to read while she wasted a perfectly good evening watching a grown man fly around the universe in a box fitted with fairy lights. It was barmy, but at this point I'd watch hours of the rubbish if it meant finding Louisa and our child safe and sound at High Trees

Speaking of barmy, I hoped Stewart hadn't taken off without me. I edged opened the door with the hope of making a quick exit when Ross wailed, "Where are you going Doc? I need your help – what if they are my babies and Claire won't let me near them?"

I looked at Ross's stricken face, and felt a pang of empathy for the man. Hadn't I been in the same situation a few months back when Louisa had wanted nothing to do with me? In hindsight, it had been terrible to be shut away from the woman I love and our unborn child, but this wasn't the time to delve into the past. I flung open the door and stepped into the storm. "Afraid you're on your own," I said over my shoulder, running to the waiting jeep.

We took off in a spray of mud and gravel, a light rain splattering against the windscreen. More rain would slow us down, and I fervently hoped it would hold off - the roads were barely passable as it was, rutted from the torrential flood waters. Soon enough we came upon a section of washed out road and Stewart yelled, "Hang on Doc!" veering the jeep down the embankment and onto the moor. The dog bounced onto my lap, and I pushed him away while trying to keep from being tossed against the side of the jeep. My shoulder was still hurting, and I grasped the seat with one hand while anxiously watching a bank of storm clouds roiling in from the east.

After a while Stewart found a stretch of unmarred road, and we were going at a good clip when he asked, "Do you have any of those digestives? I'm feeling a little peckish."

"Um Stewart, I think you should keep both hands on the wheel. Anyhow, we're almost there," I said.

"Come on Doc! It's free sailing from now on. The roads are clear at this elevation. See?" He took one hand off the steering wheel and the jeep stayed the course.

I sighed and started digging in the sack at my feet. Unlike the medical supplies the biscuits had survived the earlier tumble in the mud, and I was about to hand one to Stewart when he screamed "Duck! We're under attack!"

I abruptly sat up and looked out the windscreen to see something large and grey fly by- it could have been a bird or debris blown by the gale force winds. Stewart continued to scream and the jeep suddenly jumped off the road and down the verge, flipping over once before crashing in a ravine filled with flood water. Then there was the sound of an explosion and the world went dark.

**Authors' Note**

**Happy Independence Day to all our American readers!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Rain Check**

**by Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Previously in Chapter 12: **

I sighed and started digging in the sack at my feet. Unlike the medical supplies the biscuits had survived the earlier tumble in the mud, and I was about to hand one to Stewart when he screamed "Duck! We're under attack!"

"I abruptly sat up and looked out the windscreen to see something large and grey fly by. It could have been a bird or debris blown by the gale force winds. Stewart continued to scream and the jeep suddenly jumped off the road and down the verge, flipping over once before crashing in a ravine filled with flood water. Then there was the sound of an explosion and the world went dark.

**Chapter 13**

"Oh, for goodness sake, Marty," Auntie Joan scolded, "you are covered in muck! That's not like you at all. I'll never get that suit clean. Your father will have my head."

"Oh, Auntie, I'm so sorry. The rain began, and I slipped near the sheep gate. I was only saying good bye to Mrs. Pratt. She gave me cakes for the train. They're gone as well."

"Nothing to be done about it, now, Marty. Uncle Phil will see to your bath, and I'll do what I can with the suit. Blast all, why does that bastard have to take you back. Oh, sorry Marty, pretend I didn't say that. Come on then. We must get you out of this mess."

Many years later, the words of my dead aunt, Joan Norton, played through my head as my shattered body melted into the primordial loam of Bodmin Moor. Now I was in another mess but without Auntie Joan to help.

"Remember that, Martin, do you?" Joan's ethereal voice continued. "Everything Phil and I did for you. We were the ones who loved you. What did you do, then? Couldn't even give me a proper funeral. If anyone bothered to read my instructions, you'd know Mr. Pote was not to be used. Wheatley & Sons in Wadebridge arranged Phil's funeral and that's who I wanted. My funeral plan was paid. You'd only to give them a ring.

"Couldn't even find pallbearers strong enough to carry the load. Despite your so-called eulogy, I was not obese. You, yourself, showed me on the chart that my weight was at the top of the average range.

"Dropping my coffin I could forgive. But that bloody eulogy. I thought Louisa had gotten to you. Pulled out some emotions. Clearly not. Right there, with people from as far as Land's End, you had to call me obese. A gentleman never mentions a lady's weight. Surely, you learned something from Louisa while she was pregnant. Or did you think her fat then? Well, you made her that way, boy.

"Now you're going off to London. Leaving her and the baby to it. That is not what the Ellinghams do. Your father stuck with your mother, but God help me I wish he hadn't. Maybe there would be some hope for you now."

"Oh, Auntie," I tried to explain. "I'm so sorry. I've made a terrible mess of everything. I've stayed in Portwenn, but Louisa won't marry me. I've asked and asked. But she gave me a 'rain check.' What does that mean, a 'rain check'?"

"Oh, my dear Marty. A 'rain check,' is it? Always too independent by half that girl. Well, what are you going to do about it? Do you want to marry her or not?"

"Yes. Yes, of course, I want to marry her. I want James Henry to have a proper family: mum and dad. It's the right thing to do."

"Right thing, you say. No wonder Louisa gave you a rain check! You're talking about a duty. What about Louisa? Do you want her to be your wife? And none of your nonsense about duty. Again, Marty, do you want Louisa to be your wife and not just the mother of your child? What do you want, nephew?"

"Louisa, I want Louisa. But she doesn't want me. How do I make her want me, Auntie Joan?"

"Oh, Louisa wants you. She told me so. Driving to her appointments in Truro, she said as much. I tried to help. Explained how my charming brother and his horrid wife treated you. Said she understood. Didn't she talk to you about it?"

"No, never. Louisa and I talk about very little. Since James Henry's birth, we've only just managed the practicalities."

"For pity's sake, Martin, haven't you a hint about women - even now? You must tell Louisa how you feel. Tell her why you want to marry her. Forget the practicalities. You've got to make your case. You once wrote poetry. Remember those cards you'd send on my birthdays? Write a poem for her. Heaven knows you wasted not a bit of poetry on my eulogy. You've only to say nice things to Louisa.

"Now pull yourself out of this mess, Marty. No one is going to rescue you. Get on your own two feet and get on with it."

Aunt Joan's voice faded as consciousness returned, and I tried to assess my condition. The pain was unrelenting, starting at my previously-injured shoulder and attacking every neuron of my being. Breathing was made difficult by the mud, blood and vomit clogging my mouth and nostrils. I could not move away from the rain puddling at my side and threatening to cover my face. It was then I knew I was dying. No one would find me. My battered body folded into this intransigent bit of Cornish terrain.

"He was survived by his aunt, Ruth Ellingham, a son, James Henry Glasson, and a Rain Check from the child's mother, Louisa Glasson." My obituary would be fitting for the mess I'd made of my life.

"Oh God," I despaired as consciousness once more scurried away, too frightened to remain with my miserable thoughts.

"Sorry, Marty, he's not ready for you yet," Aunt Joan re-appeared. "I won't see you for quite some time, I'm afraid. God said there's some hope left for you. James Henry is the hope. Your salvation is through your son. He's trying to save your life. Let him. Louisa will follow suit. Come on then, let's stop this blathering and get you out of this weather. I love you Marty. Now you must love as well."

The next thing I heard was the maniacal bleating of Stewart competing with the yowling wind: "No there, Doc, there. Anthony said he's over there. Shine your torch this way. See there, just like Anthony said."

"Stewart," I tried to cry, but was stopped as someone dropped into the puddle and two hands pawed at my mouth. Chris Parsons' panicked tone followed: "Come on, Mart, stay with me. We'll get you out of this mess. Talk to me, Mart, stay with me."

"Water," my lips moved against his hands. The skies were spilling water but I wanted nothing more than a sip.

"Good, Mart, you're back. "We've got you now. They're bringing in the ambulance. It'll be a minute. Let's get you stabilised."

"Christ, is that Ellingham," the unmistakably unctuous voice of Adrian Pitts rattled my senses more than the wind and rain. He was soon interrupted by Stewart: "It was a bloody Serb plane. I told the doc to take cover, but the tosser flew right at us. Evade, evade. That's what the Welsh Guard did in Bosnia. Anthony and the dog got the plane. We're safe now, doc."

Another set of hands began to move expertly about my body. "Chief, I'm going to take your BP and then examine you. I'll begin with your head and go on to the right side then your left." It was Pitts again, but I had no choice, I could not move. "Dr. Parsons," he mewled, "please hold his head steady and keep talking to him. We'll start a morphine drip in a minute. That'll help."

I would later learn that being ejected from an enclosed jeep most often results in death. The rain that had been pelting the moor for the last day and a half had worked through and softened the soil so that the force of my impact was absorbed, rather than resisted, by the kaolinite and granite strata. Stewart could never explain how he and Buddy had walked away with no injuries beyond a muddied ranger uniform and a dirtier-than-usual coat. Perhaps Auntie Joan had something to do with it.

Now, with my mouth cleared, I found myself first grimacing and then embarrassed to be wailing in pain as Pitts gently but thoroughly palpitated my extremities with his well-trained hands. Doing so, he grimly recounted my injuries to Parsons, who murmured words of assurance: "These can be fixed Mart. No internal injuries we think. Concussed, but the hematoma is outside the skull. We'll know more when we get you to the A&E. Stay with me, Mart. We'll find Louisa. She'll meet us at hospital. You may need a few units of blood. They're some nasty lacerations. Pitts is assessing them now. You're good. You're good."

Then through the streaming rain, the ambulance attendants appeared bearing more medical equipment and a backboard. Pitts immediately ordered a drip, and scissors sliced through the sleeve of Bert Large's mac. He would certainly insist I buy a new coat for him; the man was incapable of mercy. Or so I thought. I felt the prick of the needle entering my vein on the first try and had a swell of pride recalling how I made Pitts practice endlessly on oranges to ensure his first attempt with the jab was the only one needed. I had enough sense remaining to count slowly down from "20," knowing somewhere around "3," the pain would be obliterated by the dreams of the God Morpheus.

And dream I did. I entered a carefree euphoria that allowed me to miss the cursing and groaning of the medics as they fixed me to a back board, neck brace in place. Pitts, Parsons and the attendants carried my sodden self to one of the ambulances that had been following the military vehicle to Portwenn. Somewhere during the trip my mind stumbled upon the memory of another ambulance ride, the one with Peter Cronk. Louisa once told me that was the night she fell in love with me.

We had made love for the first time since the eve of our wedding day. In what she called the afterglow, Louisa released a gush of memories about me. She recalled everything from our first meeting to the walk from Pintire Castle with James safe once more. I told her again that I truly loved her and asked her to marry me. It was then Louisa said she had loved me since I operated on Peter, but she did not respond to my marriage proposal. I fell asleep that night not sure if her failure to accept my proposal was an oversight or an evasion. I would soon recognize it was the latter. Nonetheless, I persisted. I wanted Louisa to be my wife.

I next suggested that we be quietly married over the Christmas half-term. James Henry could be left in the care of Roger and Maureen Fenn, allowing us to slip away to Bournemouth, London, wherever Louisa wished. "No," she vehemently protested. "We must have our first Christmas with James." When I wondered aloud if our son would even know it was Christmas, Louisa pouted a bit: "Of course, he will." I let it drop at that, but determined to seek advice on the matter of marriage. But from whom?

Before her death, Auntie Joan had been more of a mother hen than a confidant, although she fancied herself just that. The family psychiatrist, Aunt Ruth, would try to analyse me, beginning with my wretched childhood. Of course there was no one in the village, nor really even in London. Robert, perhaps. But he was still a bit miffed with me for finally declining the Imperial post. Chris Parsons had shouldered so many of my problems, I felt I could no longer turn to him. But there was no one else.

The Saturday Chris and I fixed for lunch coincided with the Portwenn seaside festival, an event I loathed. Louisa gave me a free pass saying she and James would enjoy the merriment with her friend, Isobel, who was bringing her daughter for a visit to the child's birthplace. Another foolish notion, I reminded Louisa, but wish I hadn't.

Minutes after Morwenna switched off the computer and called: "See you at the festival, Doc," I was out the door, eager to escape the village of the damned. Parsons suggested we meet at the Falcon Hotel in Bude where he had some sort of seminar on Sunday. Settling in at the Tennyson Restaurant, he was nearly ebullient, enjoying a rare weekend away from his family. "Mart, how are you then? Louisa, James? Everyone well? I love the wife and sprogs but it's fantastic being alone for a change. The noise, the near bedlam. You'll soon learn, Mart. Especially if you and Louisa add a few more to the brood. Any thought of that?"

"Uhm, no. Probably not." His comment effectively breached my wall of frustration with Louisa. I spewed forth my concerns to Chris, ending with: "Why won't she marry me? I love her. I've told her so. But she always asks me to say it again. It's like she can't hear it enough. I say it over and over, but still she refuses my proposals. What should I do, Chris? How did you persuade Kathryn to marry you? "

Chris lowered his head and laughed modestly: "Actually, Mart, she proposed to me. Said if she waited for me, she'd die a spinster. I suppose she was right. I had no interest in marriage. I thought we were fine: living together, her working, me working, weekend trips to places like this," he gestured grandly.

"One Christmas, we made our regular visit to her parents in Reading, but this was a bit different. Her three sisters had babies that year, and the whole dynamic had changed. No longer did we have the drinks parties and charades, now it was all about Father Christmas. Suddenly, the house had turned into a child sanctuary. I had to tiptoe about - her father didn't have time for chess, her mother told me to make my own breakfast. The grandchildren came first.

"For the rest of the holiday, Kathryn grew more tense, nearly morose. When we returned to London, she told me she wanted to be part of this baby business. An auntie was not enough for her. Then she asked me to marry her. I stupidly told her, I'd think about it and get back to her later. Yes, those were my actual words.

"She never said anything more to me, but I knew she was pissed. Weekends were spent with her friends or her sisters, ignoring me. We had turned into flatmates. You know what I missed during that time, Mart? I missed the intimacy. Not the sexual intimacy, but just the silly things. Every night I'd bring her a cup of tea with three biscuits, and I have a beer. Then we'd talk. Sometimes it was profound, sometimes ordinary, but I knew we were connected. She loved me more than anything, and I loved her even more. What the bloody hell was wrong with me? Why didn't I want to marry her?

"Well, the answer was quite simple: I was afraid. Divorce is rife in my family, and I didn't want to end up like my parents or aunts and uncles. All of my cousins are a mess, and I'm only slightly better. But one day it occurred to me that Kathryn wasn't afraid of marriage. Her parents had been married for nearly 40 years, and all of her sisters found decent men who loved them. I had nothing to fear.

"That weekend I brought her tea and biscuits for the first time in weeks. I placed the cup on a nice tray with a posey of daisies and a card reading: 'I would be honoured to be your husband and the father of your children.' We were married six months later, and Danny was born nine months after that.

"Maybe Louisa is afraid of marriage, Mart. Her parents weren't exactly role models from what you've said, and neither were your parents. Maybe you're frightened as well. Could that be the problem, Mart?"

"No I'm not afraid," I moaned, returning to the present as the ambulance surged through the wind and rain toward the Royal Cornwall.

"Nothing to be afraid of, Mart," Chris re-assured me. We've gotten through on the radio and they'll take you immediately into CT and radiography. The hospital's a bit overwhelmed from storm casualties, but we can get you into theatre quickly. From the sound of your belly, you haven't eaten in a while and what little you had was likely regurgitated. It seems you have a broken right ankle and a spiral fracture of your left tibia and fibula. Pitts stitched up your thighs to staunch the bleeding but more will be needed. We have an ortho and neuro at the ready.

" The military vehicle and second ambulance arrived in Portwenn, and eleven patients are being brought to hospital. How the bloody hell did Alec Harrison wash up there? He said Edith Montgomery is driving back to Portwenn with Louisa, James, and your aunt. I won't ask how Edith got there; I assume it was on her broom!

"As soon as they reach the village, Montgomery will remain in Portwenn, and Harrison will drive Louisa and James to Truro. We could use another surgeon here, and he's chomping to be back in the thick of it. Don't be afraid, Mart, everything is going to be sorted out."

Morphine brings a release from pain as well as inhibitions . With Chris Parsons squeezing my hand, and Adrian Pitts taping bandages in place, I began to sob. Huge granular tears washed the remaining grit from my eyes and created channels down my swollen face. Louisa was safe. James and Ruth were safe. I wanted nothing more than that. Actually I did. I wanted Louisa to be my wife. By God, I vowed, I would redeem my 'rain check' from Louisa, and I knew exactly how I would do it.

Continued


	14. Chapter 14

**Rain Check**

**by Portwenn Hydra**

**Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of any legal rights is intended or implied.**

**Previously in Chapter 13:**

Morphine brings a release from pain as well as inhibitions. With Chris Parsons squeezing my hand, and Adrian Pitts taping bandages in place, I began to sob. Huge granular tears washed the remaining grit from my eyes and created channels down my swollen face. Louisa was safe. James and Ruth were safe. I wanted nothing more than that. Actually I did. I wanted Louisa to be my wife. By God, I vowed, I would redeem my 'rain check' from Louisa, and I knew exactly how I would do it.

**Chapter 14**

"Chief, can you hear me?"

Of course I can hear you, you imbecile, I thought to myself. I'm standing two feet across the table from you.

At times like this, Adrian Pitts drove me this side of bodmin. There was no question as to his surgical skill; he was unquestionably one of the brightest and most talented surgical registrars to pass through my department and I took a certain pride in his accomplishments. His personality was something else altogether. Yes, surgeons were generally known for their aloofness and arrogance, but Pitts took smugness and obsequiousness to a whole new level.

"Are you ready for the graft?" I asked through my surgical mask.

We had just started the procedure, an EVAR for a triple A. Because today's surgery was not an emergency, it provided an excellent opportunity to allow Pitts to work as the lead surgeon with me functioning as the assistant.

"The repair looks good," Pitts said. "He should be back on his feet in no time."

"What do you mean it looks good?" I asked, staring at the open wound beneath us. "You've barely begun."

"He's very lucky. Could have been killed." It was the voice of Chris Parsons over my shoulder. What in bloody hell was he doing in my OR?

Pitts was motioning at me. "Chief, I can't seem to get the guide wire in place."

"Of course you can," I replied, forcing myself not to grab the wire from his hands. "Stay calm and take it slowly."

"BP's falling."

I frowned. The voice was male but the anesthesiologist for our procedure was Dr. Jane Heatherington – decidedly female.

"It's not working," Pitts said. In fairness, the positioning of the graft was turning out to be more complicated than either of us had expected. He looked up at me, clearly annoyed that he hadn't been able to manage on his own and yet also unwilling to place the patient in jeopardy to save his pride. Even Pitts had his limits. "You'd best take over," he added.

"Doctor, he's waking up."

Who was waking up? Surely not our patient? We were in the middle of a major surgical procedure and the patient was under general anesthesia. Besides, the patient was female – how could Heatherington get that wrong? "Put her back under!" I ordered. "What the hell is going on here?"

"I've lost her pulse."

"Color's good and vital signs are strong." It sounded like Parsons.

What? I shook my head to clear the confusion.

"Mart?"

Parsons again. Would he just shut up so I could focus on the surgery at hand?

"Chief?"

I heard the routine bleeps of the patient monitor – despite the words of concern, my patient didn't seem to be in distress. I was torn between forcing Pitts to continue his efforts or taking over. It was a simple procedure; I'd done it many times.

"Open your eyes, Mart." Parsons.

"What about our patient?" Pitts.

Too many people, too much going on. Forget Parsons, I needed to attend to my patient. I reached out to take the guide wire from Pitts' hands.

And found myself unable to move. I couldn't do it.

Someone was holding me back, holding my arm.

"Stay still, Mart."

Oh God. Someone was clinging to me, clinging to my patient. It was my patient's family, clinging to her when I'd stopped by the ward before surgery. I'd promised them everything would be fine. And now, I couldn't move.

"I can't do it."

I couldn't get that blasted family out of my mind. Pitts was staring at me, holding out the guide wire. I steeled myself to take it; reached out with a purpose.

"Chief! Stop! You're going to pull out the drip."

I blinked and opened my eyes, really opened them this time. I was in a hospital, but not in theatre. In fact, I was lying on my back in a hospital bed, with Chris Parsons and Adrian Pitts staring down at me. It took only a few seconds for a sober thought to register in my brain: I wasn't the surgeon; I was the patient.

The flood of relief that I wasn't about to kill my patient – or let Pitts do it – was short lived as the memories rushed back. I'd been in an accident. I'd been riding in the jeep with Stuart when he'd run off the road. Somehow, Parsons and, to my dismay, Pitts, had been able to find me—

A bright light was flashed in my eyes and I squirmed at the irritation.

"Hold still, Chief," Pitts said, grasping my head with his free hand. "Need to check your pupillary reflexes. You know the routine."

Of course I did. Oh good Lord, I was still at his mercy. As Pitts did his work, I tried to piece together my memories. I'd been in the jeep with Stuart on my way to High Trees to take antibiotics to James—

I struggled to push myself up. "James," I croaked, and was immediately ashamed at the weakness of my voice.

It was Parsons who rested a hand on my shoulder. "He's fine," he said. "As is Louisa."

I looked around; neither was in my room. "Where?"

"Lie back and let Adrian finish. Then I'll explain everything."

I glared at him but he simply shook his head and gave me a half smile.

I held Chris' eyes for a long minute searching for any evidence that he was merely placating me with respect to Louisa and James. When he didn't look away, I nodded and reluctantly sunk back into the bed.

"What's your pain level?" Pitts asked, making a notation in my chart.

I had no interest in talking about my pain but knew that, the sooner I answered Pitts' questions, the sooner he'd finish and the sooner I'd get answers to _my_ questions. I took a deep breath. Or at least tried to. The effort started me coughing, which in turn caused nerve endings from my toes to my head to start firing in pain. A groan forced itself out of my throat.

To his credit, Pitts jumped into action. Before I fully realized what was happening, he'd listened to my chest and lungs, put me on a nasal cannula, and increased my pain medication. Within a few minutes, I was considerably more comfortable.

"That should hold you for now, Chief," Pitts said. "I'll check back in a few hours. In the meantime, the nurses will inform me if there's any change in your condition."

Much as I wanted to despise him, I found myself unexpectedly proud of my one-time student. To my critical eye, he'd done everything right from a medical standpoint. And, while his bedside manner left something to be desired, I had to admit that, in me, he hadn't had much of a role model.

The minute the door closed, I looked expectantly at Parsons, demanding answers to my many unanswered questions. I thanked my stars that he'd managed to get me a private room; I don't know as I could have survived in a ward bed surrounded by the misery of Cornwall.

Parsons gave me a tight smile. "Louisa got here just as they were taking you into surgery. She stayed until you were in Recovery and then I sent her to The Alverton and told her I didn't want to see here back here for at least eight hours." He smiled again. "Doctor's orders."

_Doctor's orders? _Was something wrong with Louisa? My mind started racing, searching for a sign or symptom I'd missed. I'd been so damn busy tending to all my other patients that I must have neglected—

Parsons seemed to sense my agitation. "She only tired, Mart. Exhausted actually. Nothing a decent night's sleep won't cure."

Thank goodness. "And James? What about the bronchiolitis?"

"James is fine. Turned out not to be a bacterial infection after all. He's upstairs in Pediatrics—"

James was here, in hospital? I again started to pull myself out of the bed, only this time I noticed – for the first time – that both of my legs were in casts. What the—" The analgesia Pitts had given me made it difficult to process all that was happening.

"Martin," Chris said in his usual calm and patient demeanor, "I promised I would explain everything, including your own condition, and I will. But, if you keep getting yourself worked up, your vitals are going to spike and then the nurses will be in here and . . ."

And sedate me, I finished silently. As much as it pained me, there was no real option other than to lie back and let Parsons tell my tale of woe in his own time and in his own way. I bit my lower lip, closed my mouth and nodded. Get on with it, was my clear message.

"James is in hospital both as a precaution and, quite frankly, because there weren't a lot of other options when he and Louisa arrived here at two in the morning. According to Edith, James simply had a nasty bout of teething and may have eaten something at your Aunt Ruth's that disagreed with his digestive system. Bess Morris checked him over as well and agreed that he's fine. He'll be discharged as soon as Louisa gets here. In the meantime, they're keeping him quarantined from the other children, so don't even start worrying about his catching something while he's here."

Thank God. I didn't even believe in God and yet I was actually thanking Him for keeping my son safe. I chalked it up to another of bout of irrationality that children bring out in their parents. Bess Morris was the very competent Chief of Pediatrics; she would never have been in hospital in the middle of the morning. Obviously, Parsons had called her and I knew I should be grateful, should thank him.

"Now, let's talk about you," Parsons continued.

I sighed. "Made a mess of it, haven't I?"

"Well, let's put it this way. You won't be chasing after your son for awhile."

I groaned inwardly. "How bad?"

"As we suspected last night, you do indeed have a left torsial tib-fib fracture. And, just to keep both sides even, you also fractured your right tibia at the ankle."

It was bad – two broken legs. I had enough familiarity with was orthopedics to understand that the length of my recovery would measured in months. "Surgery?"

Parsons nodded. Over the next few minutes, he explained that Harrison and another consultant had repaired the torsial fractures. Thankfully, the ankle fracture had been clean and only needed casting. Only! Easy for him to say given that both of my lower extremities were encased in plaster. Good Lord!

Parsons went on to tell me that Pitts had been right in that I'd been spared any serious internal injuries. I did have a couple of bruised ribs, which is partly what I'd felt when I'd coughed earlier. And, to round it off, there were various contusions and abrasions that Pitts had either sutured or left to close on their own.

"He did a good job," Parsons continued. "He's a prick, but a talented one, medically speaking." We both shared a smile at that comment.

"How long?" I asked with a long sigh and a vague glance around my room.

"Until you're out of here?" He shrugged and went on to explain how I needed to complete my occupational therapy so I could manage on my own, how we needed to find a place where I could sleep and use the lavatory on the main level, how—

It all sounded complicated and difficult and exhausting. I closed my eyes as Parsons droned on. All that mattered was that Louisa and James Henry were safe and healthy. And, in time, I would be as well. For the moment, that was enough.

* * *

When I next opened my eyes, Parsons was gone. A quick glance at the clock on the opposite wall showed I'd been asleep for nearly six hours.

I mentally took stock of my situation. I was uncomfortable from lying on my back for what must now be close to a full day. The good news was that I wasn't in pain. However, I was thirsty and, not having eaten for nearly a day, starting to get hungry as well. And I needed to pee. Time to call the nurse. I reached for the call button.

"Martin!"

My eyes flicked to the far corner where Louisa was standing up from the room's only chair. In her arms was James.

"Louisa!" I was pleased that my voice sounded stronger and even more pleased to see the two of them in my room, obviously both safe and, as best I could tell, sound. I suddenly felt much better about everything.

"I wanted to be here when you woke up from surgery," Louisa said, taking the few steps necessary to reach the side of my bed, "but Chris insisted that I go to the hotel—"

"I know. It's best you rested. If you allow yourself to get run down, you'll be more susceptible to illness."

There were so many things that I wanted to say to her, so many things that, as I lay injured, I'd promised myself that I'd say as soon as I was able. Instead, as usual, I retreated to the comfort of my medical jargon. And hated myself for doing it.

"Yes, Martin," she replied, her voice carefully neutral and leaving no doubt she was annoyed with me.

I tried again, forced myself to do better. "I'm glad, very glad to see you now." That earned me a softening of her features, if not an outright smile.

"How is James?" I said, my gaze switching to my son who obviously had been sleeping in Louisa's arms and who was now stirring a bit with all of the commotion.

"He's fine; hard to believe he was sick a day ago." Louisa held him over the bed. Without thinking, I placed the back of my hand to his forehead and was relieved to find it cool to the touch.

"Good." No thanks to me. I'd managed to make a total mess of things. My son might be fine medically, but I wouldn't be able to look after him for weeks, maybe months. What the hell good would I be as a father who couldn't stand, let alone walk or run? Not to mention that I wouldn't be able to work, to see patients. Or be a proper . . . romantic companion to Louisa. Chris Parsons had conveniently overlooked all of that when discussing my medical situation.

"They took great care of him here."

"You should take him home straight away," I added. "We don't want him being exposed to the germs in hospital."

"Are you saying you want me to leave?" Louisa asked, an edge to her voice.

"No, of course not. I—" Why did I find it so impossible to say what I really meant? It had all seemed so simple when I was lying injured in the field; now, with Louisa here, the words had deserted me.

And, more importantly, my bladder was sending me an urgent message. Much as I wanted to talk to Louisa, I needed to relieve myself. If the nurse didn't come quickly . . ."

"I very much want you to stay but . . . Can you go and find the nurse."

Her face clouded with a mixture of confusion and concern. "The nurse? Is something wrong? Are you in pain?"

"No. I just need to—" I didn't know how to explain. I didn't want Louisa to see me so helpless. And then I thought about going home in this condition and having to rely on her for . . . I didn't even want to imagine.

And I thought what I would say to her. Louisa, I love you and want to marry you but, in the meantime, could you help me with the bedpan.

I closed my eyes, cursed Stuart and this village and anyone else remotely responsible for my current situation. And struggled with what to say to the woman I dearly loved.

* * *

**Medical Glossary and Notes:**

**The Alverton**: one of the nicer hotels in Truro.

**AAA**: Abdominal aortic aneurysm, which is a bulge in the aorta, the main blood vessel that brings blood from the heart to the rest of the body.

**EVAR**: Endovascular artery repair; procedure used to treat a AAA. For those who really care, EVAR is done percutaneously (through the skin). It usually involves two small incisions made in the groin to expose the femoral arteries. A synthetic graft and stents are fed through these arteries with catheters and guidewires until the graft is positioned correctly at the top and bottom of the defective portion of the aorta. Removal of the sheath with or without balloon expansion allows barbs or other fixing devices to attach to the artery wall and hold the graft firmly in place, allowing blood to pass through it and remove pressure from the weakened aortic wall.


End file.
